My Brother's Handler
by ADayInOurLife
Summary: After Lestrade meets Sherlock on a wintry crime scene they form a lifelong bond; the story of their friendship before Sherlock meets John. Lestrade has no idea what he's getting himself into. Rated T for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello! So this is my first long fic, and I'm expecting it to span from when Lestrade meets Sherlock to when John meets Sherlock, but I'm not sure how many chapters that'll be yet, we'll see! :P I love reviews, so please humour me :)**

* * *

**December 1997**

"Lestrade!"

Lestrade whipped around at the barking of his name, and he saw a rather disgruntled DI Bradstreet, who headed his team, beckoning him over.

"Yes sir?" Lestrade asked, approaching the DI.

He saw Bradstreet staring to a point on the outskirts of the roped-off crime scene area, and followed his gaze. He saw a man standing there – well, when he said man, he wasn't sure whether boy would be a more appropriate term or not. His looks were analogous to that of a walking twig, he was gaunt-looking, and seemed very young – but his air radiated a sense of having seen a lot of adversity. Standing ramrod straight, bedraggled black curls fell into his thin face, his skin was alabaster white, and his scrutinising electric eyes grey-blue eyes bored through the crime scene. To top it all off, the look was completed with a black coat that billowed behind him in the cold winter wind, and a blue scarf entwined around his neck. The entire look was extremely impressive framed against the flashing cruiser's lights, the police tape and the slate grey sky – probably his intention.

"He's been there for one hour and six minutes, and he's irritating me. He's done nothing but stand there and _look_. Just look around, as if he's gathering information…or…I don't know! But he hasn't moved. Not a muscle. It's rather creepy; remove him please Sergeant."

"All right," Lestrade nodded his assent, clutching his jacket tighter to him as the cool wind buffeted him.

As he approached the man in the coat, the stranger spoke.

"Wrong."

Lestrade stopped in his tracks, hesitated for a second, and continued.

"Pardon?" Lestrade asked.

"I said, 'Wrong'," the stranger's deep baritone clarified.

Lestrade was completely baffled; who the hell was this guy? What the hell was "wrong"? And as he approached, he was slightly shocked. He seemed thinner than he did from a distance, and his pale, taut skin coupled with overbright eyes made him seem almost ill. But despite this, he looked completely alert and calculating. He also looked younger than he did from a distance; Lestrade decided he was probably in his late teen years, possibly around 18 or 19.

"And, er, what is 'wrong'?" Lestrade inquired.

"What you and your team are doing. You're on the completely wrong track and at the rate you're going your evidence will bring about a false conviction and your killer shall evade you. You shall rope in the wrong suspect, he, against his true protests, shall be incarcerated and justice will never be."

"Can I ask what your credentials are? Your job?"

"I am a Consulting Detective – the only one in the world. I invented the job a few weeks ago," he looked extremely smug at this, and thoroughly pleased with himself.

"What's a Consulting Detective, may I ask?" Lestrade was dubious – he'd never heard of it before and it didn't sound overly creditable, especially since this teenager had made it up himself.

"The name is self-explanatory, though should I really expect you to figure it out, judging by the average standard of intelligence I have seen so far at the Yard? Perhaps not. But you do seem to me to be a touch brighter than your moronic colleagues. I am a detective who solves all the crimes the police find too difficult for their limited intelligence. Or, I would, and Scotland Yard wouldn't have nearly as many cold cases, if your idiotic Chief Superintendent allowed me to work. Apparently, I need to complete a course at university or some other tertiary institution before anyone takes me seriously. God knows why."

Lestrade was thoroughly taken aback by the man's long oration, sprinkled with multiple insults directed his way, when he realised he still didn't even know his name, and felt DI Bradstreet's eyes on him.

"What's your name?" Lestrade asked.

"Sherlock Holmes," came the reply, to which Lestrade snorted, and tried to hide a snigger.

Sherlock Holmes looked down his nose at Lestrade disdainfully.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked.

"No, no, not at all, it's just, well, I've never heard a name like _Sherlock Holmes_ before; especially Sherlock. Is that even a name?"

"Yes it is. I have it on my birth certificate in the section that states 'First Name', registered with the British Government. Therefore, it must be a name. My name. Anyway, a unique name is a world better than something as plain as _Greg_. It's so plain and dull I might delete that information, I usually do with those sorts of names; no need to waste space on the hard drive now, is there?"

Greg Lestrade's mouth hung agape at the penultimate sentence, especially with the delicate stress placed on the word "Greg". Thinking back quickly, he checked his mind as to whether he recalled telling Sherlock his name at any point, and he couldn't remember doing so.

"How do you know my name?" his voice was now wary.

"I heard one of your fellows calling you by 'Greg' and others calling you 'Lestrade' before as you walked around the crime scene. Not such a great logical leap to make."

Lestrade was amazed. In his peripheral vision he noticed Bradstreet beginning to look rather irate, and he remembered why he had been sent to Sherlock in the first place. It certainly wasn't to have a social chit-chat.

"Well Mr Holmes –"

"Sherlock. I detest all that "Mr Holmes" business. It reminds me too much of my _brother_," Sherlock shuddered.

"Well then, Sherlock, it's been, er, good chatting with you, but I'm afraid I must order you away from the crime site. Civilians are not permitted to loiter and watch the proceedings going on behind red tape, especially not if they are standing stock-still as if made of wood, and watching everything in a very calculating way."

"What a shame, I guess my predicted outcome will prevail. Sad for the innocent person framed for this murder."

Lestrade was confused, and then remembered the first three things Sherlock had said to him.

"Er – could you tell me how exactly we're wrong, and how exactly you know that we're wrong?"

"It's extremely easy, all you must do is observe," Sherlock began, and happily launched into his tirade. "The rope lying next to the victim is not the rope used to strangle her, it has been planted by the killer as a red herring. The DNA on it is fake, and it will lead you to the wrong suspect. The fact that the killer has thought to leave a different rope shows he is clever, considered, and will have chosen the DNA of someone who may have a plausible motive, to make the murder seem as though it was committed by the framed suspect. This ensures the framed person's arrest despite any denials of committing the crime. Your killer is around…" he cocked his head thoughtfully, "six foot tall, with blonde hair, and is a confident and intelligent person.

"Your forensic scientists have taken samples from the footprints and rope – both will contain fake DNA, the DNA of the framed suspect, as I said before. Neither will help with the case. Call them off their pointless job. The murderer is obviously comfortable being in this garden, as there are no signs of forced entry and he has a key. So he must live here, or not be worried about being seen here. As the marriage of the victim is deteriorating, and she is having an affair, it was probably the husband. If the husband is six foot with blonde hair, arrest him."

Sherlock quietened. Silence reigned for a moment, before Lestrade spoke up once more.

"How on _earth_ do you know all of that?" he asked weakly.

"The marks around the victim's neck where she was strangled by the rope were made from a rope that was of a medium thickness with coarse material, shown by the size of the indents and the scratch marks around them. The rope lying next to the victim, however, is made of thick nylon, only a touch thicker than the real rope though. Obviously it's a different rope. Therefore, a red herring, and with a different DNA sample, because if the killer is smart enough to put a different rope there he will have made sure his DNA is not on it. He's thought this through then, he's quite intelligent, and wouldn't have just put any old DNA on it though.

"His foot size coupled with the distance between footsteps shows his height and the pattern of tread shows his gait. He's confident, the footsteps are clear, he wasn't rushing, all the footprint sizes and distance between footprints are even and they're a slightly more than normal width apart, so purposefully striding. There are no signs of forced entry and no signs of concealment. The gate here indicates recent key usage, but the woman apparently hasn't been out of the front yard for a few days. I asked the neighbours. You can also see that their marriage isn't strong because of her wedding ring; all her jewellery is carefully polished, but you can see the dirty ring, state of the marriage on her finger. You'll not _believe _how many cases are solved, namely because of that unpolished ring showing a destabilised marriage. This woman's hair is brown, but there are some short blonde strands, her husband's hair. So, in conclusion, if the woman's husband is tall, with blond hair, and knew of his wife's disloyalties, arrest him."

It seemed credible, but then a thought hit Lestrade – had he been just made an utter fool?

"You seem to know a lot about this case Sherlock, pardon me, but how do I know you're not the murderer and just trying to deter the blame away from _you_?" Lestrade had to ask the question; anyone would think it was suspicious.

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically and made a loud _hmph_ noise.

"So maybe you're not as intelligent as I originally thought. Shame, I was expecting you to be one of the only decent officers on the force, one that might be able to relate to me slightly more."

"Look Sherlock, I'd love to believe you, but how do I know you know all of this stuff without being in on the crime?"

"I know all of this the same way I can read your life after ten seconds; and now our conversation has run to five or maybe ten minutes, that is ample time. Ordinary people see things – I observe. But not only this, I make rather obvious logical leaps that other people's brains can't seem to. The Science of Deduction, Sgt Lestrade –" again Lestrade looked surprised as he was sure he hadn't told Sherlock his title on the force, and Sherlock noticed as he continued. "Don't be surprised, it's quite obvious you're a Sergeant."

Lestrade backtracked: "Wait, the Science of Deduction? What's that?"

"The way I know who committed this crime, and the way I know that you are in your late-thirties. You're very newly wed, judging by the age of your ring; at the moment the marriage is good but I fear it will deteriorate judging by the fact that your wife has already stopped ironing your shirts neatly, it's a very slap-dash she's done on all your clothes. You're trying to quit smoking, but you keep caving in and going back to cigarettes, I know the signs. You have no children. You have a good relationship with your father judging by that expensive watch engraved "_From your loving dad_"; and your mother, yes, good relations with her as well, though you fear for her health. You're originally from a well-off family in Somerset; I noticed that by your speech and how you present yourself. You're good at your job and a natural leader, and you're also just back from a holiday…Italy, I believe, how lovely!"

Lestrade thought about this for a while. The very unusual person would trust Sherlock; nearly everyone would be completely freaked out and annoyed. For some reason, Lestrade trusted Sherlock Holmes completely. It was just something about the man. An aura of omnipotence and knowledge, almost. Lestrade snorted as he realised that if he told Sherlock this the detective would probably agree completely and praise Lestrade for being so perceptive of Sherlock's nature; during their conversation he had seemed rather egotistical.

"So Sergeant, I suggest that you go over to your overseeing Inspector and solve his crime for him. I trust you've remembered what I told you about it? Though if I were you, I might not disclose the fact that you found out all of this off a bystander, however intelligent that bystander may be. Then I'm sure he'll be so impressed he'll file the petition for the promotion up a rank he's been considering for you for some time now. Yes, he's been very impressed with you. Ever since you moved from…the narcotics division I assume it was? You must be one of the more intelligent and perceptive officers, though our conversation today doesn't quite entirely support that. Oh well. I must be off now, good-bye Lestrade, I'm sure we'll be seeing each other sometime again."

Sherlock began to turn away, his massive coat swirling with him. He turned around as he left to add with a wink: "And I'm sure the DI will be additionally impressed by the fact that you successfully rid the crime scene of the loitering bystander who was so irritating him."

And with that he rounded the corner, and the end of his black coat whipped out of sight. For a few moments, Lestrade simply stood there, slightly baffled. He had just had his life told to him by a complete stranger who apparently had _observed it_, had a crime solved in seconds by the same stranger, and had also been called stupid multiple times. Sherlock's manner had been brusque, upfront, and simply quite rude. But despite this, Lestrade had a feeling that his manner wasn't all there was to him; there was much more to Sherlock, something deeper, Lestrade decided. The officer had always been a good judge of character. He was intrigued. And there was something about the curly-haired youth that he quite liked.

Suddenly, Lestrade jolted out of his thoughts when he realised he was staring into space, not doing anything, and was starting to attract looks from the team. With some quick thinking, he assumed a pensive face, and spun around, as if struck by some sudden incredible idea. He strode purposefully over to Bradstreet. Lestrade found him just beginning to finish up at the crime scene.

"Sir!" Lestrade called.

"Yes, Lestrade? We're just packing up now, we have DNA from the rope and also a –"

"No sir, that's wrong. That DNA is going to lead you to the wrong guy," Lestrade informed him.

"What are you talking about?"

"That rope isn't the rope that was used for the murder. I was just thinking about it for a while over there, because something had been bothering me about the case, and this is what it was. See these marks? They're made by a rope of medium-sized, coarse material. Here," Lestrade demonstrated the size of the indents, "and here," he pointed out the scratch marks by coarse material.

"So, it's a red herring?"

"Yes. The killer had planted it here, not only to not be detected, but to frame a suspect and deflect blame from him entirely."

DI Bradstreet looked rather impressed at this.

"So how do we find the killer?"

"Give me a sec," Lestrade replied, and began pretending to inspect the body. "Well for starters, these footprints look as though they were made by a tall man, and the stride as he comes in from the gates, using even steps and full footprints, shows confidence, so he doesn't need to be worried being seen here. As there's no sign of a forced entry – I checked it out after talking to our loiterer – and the lock on the gate indicates a key was used in it today because of fresh scratch marks, the person probably lives here. It's the husband, most likely, because Lucy Everton here was having an affair. Her…wedding ring isn't clean, even though all her other jewellery sparkles."

Lestrade finished, and prayed that this Sherlock Holmes was right. His career was resting on it. He had always been one of the best officers to join the force, always worked things out others couldn't, seen things others didn't, caught the criminals the others wouldn't have. It was for that reason he'd risen up the ranks very quickly. Of course, meeting Sherlock made his skills seem juvenile and basic in comparison. So he knew that however good he'd been, he'd never been quite _this_ good; but hopefully Bradstreet could believe it was a normal progression of going from Very Good to Genius.

Bradstreet spoke after a few moments of contemplation: "Well, we'll have to investigate all of this first, of course. Right: Barton, Wilson, find the woman's husband and interrogate him. Especially if he's tall," Bradstreet barked.

_And with blond hair_, Lestrade thought.

"Murcher," he continued, "go through all her contacts, find out if this woman was having an affair," he turned to Lestrade. "Golly, if you're right…"

Lestrade watched with a great feeling ballooning inside him as the woman's lover was uncovered, her blond-haired and tall husband interrogated, the files for the Everton case sealed and Sherlock Holmes proved right. A few weeks after he met Sherlock, he sat at his desk contemplating where the enigma was now, an intense interest in the man began to form. Thinking about the detective in the flapping black coat he fiddled contentedly with the so very shiny and new badge he'd acquired: _Detective Inspector Lestrade_.


	2. Chapter 2

**October, 2004**

Seven years passed and Lestrade saw neither hide nor hair of the teenager who had solved the Everton case faster than you could say "murder". From time to time Lestrade thought about the young genius and aspiring detective, and he always pictured him while on a particularly baffling case that turned cold. Sometimes Lestrade simply wondered what was Sherlock was doing right at that moment. Of course, there was no way he'd ever find out, but he did wonder.

The end of another year was beginning to roll around once again, and Lestrade's team had been called to a suspected homicide. He was cursing his luck. Why couldn't someone else's team have gotten this one? The case was baffling. Arriving at the scene and looking around, he thought it wasn't often he'd seen a cleaner crime scene, a cleaner crime. The victim was found on her living room couch; there was no weapon, no fingerprints, no DNA, no forced entry, no enemies of the victim that would like to see the end of her, and no hints whatsoever, it seemed. Just signs of a minor struggle and a wide open back door. There was a wound right where the victim's heart was with a river of blood pooling on the ground next to her.

The only evidence that could be used to incriminate the murderer were the dying words of the dead woman: a neighbour had testified that she heard a scream, a cry of "_Help!_". Coming to investigate, she'd found Kate Moon lying prostrate on her carpet, and in her last moments had pointed towards the open back door, and choked out something that the neighbour made out to be "he went that way". The neighbour hadn't seen anyone. And Lestrade knew that what they had to go on wasn't nearly enough to even begin searching.

As he directed his new team, he desperately wanted to simply go home and settle down with a nice, hot cup of tea. It wasn't helping that a thin shower was falling over London. _If it's going to rain, it shouldn't be this stupid, weak drizzle. At least commit to being rain or don't rain at all!_ He was starting to be thoroughly annoyed with everything when he saw a figure in the distance. With a big black coat, skin as white as paper and curly black hair. _Thank goodness!_ Lestrade internally leapt for joy.

"Good evening Inspector," Sherlock greeted him.

"Hello Sherlock. Thought you'd dropped off the face of the Earth."

Sherlock gave him a wry smile, and Lestrade noted how he looked older, as one would expect after seven years – but not just seven years older. He looked _much_ older, he'd seemed to age more than usual. And the reason for his mature looks became apparent when he came closer to Lestrade.

The last time they'd seen each other, Sherlock had been very thin and gaunt, more than usual. But now it was a different story. He looked drained, and he looked sick. His sharp eyes sat atop deep circles, and his every bone could be seen through the white skin. Lestrade thought his hands shook slightly even. There was something else that was worrying Lestrade that he couldn't quite place. His locks of curly hair were much longer and scruffier than before and the cheekbones more prominent and pronounced. Sherlock was still very shrewd and perceptive though, and his light blue eyes darted around where he stood, noting and taking everything in.

"I needn't ask how you've been because you've been very well. Except this case is troubling you. I can help you with that, no need to fret."

"And how have you been?" Lestrade asked.

"Spectacular."

Though he didn't look it, Lestrade thought. He looked as if all he needed was someone to sit him down and take good care of him for a few weeks. And a good strong cup of tea wouldn't harm him. Lestrade wondered where Sherlock had been for the past seven years.

"Excellent. Well, this one's inside the house," Lestrade explained everything he knew about the case to Sherlock. "I'm not sure what I'm going to tell everyone, but –"

"You tell them I'm a Consulting Detective, consulted by the Yard. It's not a lie; I _am_ a Consulting Detective now, you are part of the Yard, and you're consulting me."

And Sherlock strode into the house. He strode around as if he owned the place. As Lestrade followed, he was stopped short by a tan, frizzy haired newly promoted Sergeant. After being moved up a rank from constable, Lestrade had taken a liking to her policing skills.

"Yes, Donovan?" Lestrade asked.

"Sir, we have an intruder. His explanation when I asked what he was doing here was 'Lestrade'."

"Ah yes, he's a…Consulting Detective. Going to be looking in on the case."

"Oh," Donovan looked reasonably surprised. "I've never seen him around before, what's his name? Is he new at the Yard?"

"His name's Sherlock Holmes. You probably haven't seen him around the Yard."

"So he is new?"

"Well, in a manner of speaking…but – not really…"

She was looking at him disbelievingly, until Sherlock yelled "Inspector!" and Lestrade excused himself. He entered the very bland white front room that seemed to lack any sort of character, and saw Sherlock pacing the floor, back and forth, back and forth. If he didn't stop, Lestrade thought that he'd wear the pale carpet down so much he'd have to pay for a replacement. Suddenly, the detective's features erupted into a grin.

"Yes…yes…oh, how I _love_ it when it's clever! The clever ones are the most fun," Sherlock cried.

"The clever what?" Lestrade asked.

"The clever crimes. Yes…tell me Inspector – what is always cited as the quintessential perfect crime?" Sherlock's features were positively luminous.

"Uh…"

"Stabbed with an icicle?" Donovan supplied, leaning against the doorjamb at the entrance of the front room. "So the evidence and weapon melt away…"

"Exactly! You notice the wet patch here, next to her? That's where the icicle melted. The wound also looks just like it was made by such an instrument – I did an experiment approximately two years ago to see what an icicle stab looks like, and this is textbook."

"So, she," Lestrade indicated to Kate Moon, "was murdered after being stabbed with an _icicle_?"

It was possibly the strangest thing he'd heard. So they had the weapon, but it brought them no closer to finding the killer, Lestrade reflected gloomily, as the whole point of the icicle being used for the weapon was that it would melt away all ways of tracking the killer – if the murderer hadn't left any other traces. And there were no other traces. But Sherlock didn't seem at all disheartened. In fact, he strode purposefully around the room as if he was in complete control.

"You have your cause of death correct, but she wasn't _murdered_ by being stabbed."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock blankly.

"She committed suicide – it wasn't murder," Sherlock explained. At Lestrade's confused face, Sherlock explained: "See her left hand? It's slightly damp and wrinkled which comes after being wet – from holding the icicle. This and other evidence around this room suggests she was left-handed, so if she was to stab herself in the heart, which is on the left side of the chest, the angle of the wound would be very distinctive, which it is. See the entry point here? And the trajectory of the icicle as it moves in – here.

"The only evidence of a struggle is this one armchair toppled forwards and a broken coffee table – but look at how back-heavy the chair is and how the legs splay to the front! Unlikely it would have fallen the way it has in a real struggle. And the break down the coffee table here is too clean of a cut to have been created during a real fight between this woman and an assailant. A larger commotion would have occurred if this was a murder by stabbing, and this isn't enough of a wrecked room. Nor is it realistically done for that matter. And there's the fact that there's no sign of forced entry, both these last two things suggest there was no one else here."

"But why would she commit suicide?" Lestrade asked.

"Mentally disturbed. She had a therapist and medication for depression," Sherlock produced a bottle of pills from atop the mantle, behind a photo frame. "Which she hasn't been taking of late, so the depression would, obviously, worsen," he added, inspecting the bottle.

"All right, that's all good, but why stage it as a murder?"

Before answering, Sherlock marched over to the calendar, flipped from November right back to April, and nodded. Lestrade's eye caught on Sherlock's forearm when his coat sleeve fell down to peel back the pages of the calendar. It was dotted with pockmarks. And it clicked; the nagging thing about Sherlock that had worried Lestrade. _Sunken eyes, gaunt face, jittery, pockmarks. He's an addict. Cocaine? _Lestrade said nothing about it, but resolved to ask Sherlock later. He hadn't thought Sherlock was doing drugs when they first met on the Everton case. Things, circumstances, change. Sherlock then picked up the victim's contact book, flicked through it, and turned to Lestrade.

"There are four names in this book – her sister, mother and father, and counsellor. She staged it as a murder because she didn't want to upset her only contacts by making them think she was so disturbed as to take her own life. She cherishes her family; these two birthday cards are still on display in November – her birthday was in April, it's written on the calendar. Excuse me for a moment," Sherlock said, and disappeared down the corridor.

Lestrade followed him down a characterless hallway and into the bedroom. Sherlock had dipped his hand under the mattress of the bed and was extracting a small, leather-bound, dark green book.

"How did you know where the diary was?" Lestrade asked.

"She had depression and trust issues, and I noticed that the corner of the mattress hadn't been replaced properly but the bed hadn't been properly made in a while so the mattress wasn't moved for that reason."

But Lestrade's heart sunk in disappointment when they opened the diary. All the pages were blank. The Inspector thought he wouldn't be able to convince the rest of the police and a jury that it was suicide on only the evidence they had. But Sherlock started stroking the beginning pages, and then went to the middle, started working backwards in touching each page, and stopped, smiling.

"This isn't a blank diary, don't worry Lestrade."

Lestrade watched as Sherlock flounced out of the room, brimming with excitement. By the time he'd come into the kitchen Sherlock was already taking out ingredients from the cupboards. Suddenly it hit Lestrade: the pages towards the front had been wrinkled, but those at the back hadn't. With a graceful flourish Sherlock swept a liquid he'd quickly made over the paper, and words appeared.

"Brilliant! Invisible ink!"

"Not really brilliant; quite simple really. The pages showed obvious signs of having being written on with a liquid from the crinkle in them. I found the last page written on, as that is the one that would probably help us the most."

Bending over the book, the two read the entry, dated the previous day.

_I can't take it anymore. I look back on my life and when I ask myself what I've achieved, what I've done right, what good things there are left in the world, and I come up with nothing. I feel like I've failed and can't do anything to help myself. There's really no more point…I've prepared everything, and I know my parents will be happier thinking I didn't meet my end by suicide – they were direct in their letter that I would never be forgiven should I try to off myself. Murder would be much kinder to them all, but I wouldn't let anyone else be incriminated, so I'm happy to do it myself and stage it as a killing. And my icicle idea was, I think, my only achievement in my entire life, I'm rather proud of it…I'm afraid this will be the last you'll ever hear from me, diary. I'll see you in the next life._

_-Kate_

"And there is your testimony, from the mouth – or hand, that is – of your victim. Inspector, I believe we're done here."

Lestrade gave Constable MacPherson of all the relevant photos and evidence to collect, and he followed Sherlock out of the house, shocked that the case had already been completed. It was definitely the fastest Lestrade's seen a case completely solved and shelved. Lestrade noted with a strange pleasure at how much happier Sherlock seemed to be while bouncing around the crime scene, making deductions, connecting clues and solving cases, as opposed to how he looked before as he trudged down the street. It was liveliness, a new vitality. Lestrade liked it. The air was becoming colder and colder as December drew closer, and Lestrade saw how Sherlock was dressed – apart from the coat, he only had a thin shirt and thin, worn dress trousers on. He must have been cold, Lestrade reasoned.

"Where are you going now?" Lestrade asked.

"Vauxhall. Well, good-bye Lestrade, this was a wonderfully stimulating day," Sherlock began to traipse down the street.

"Sherlock, wait!" Sherlock rounded back on Lestrade at the yell. "Are you walking?"

"Yes, I usually just do that. Sometimes I go on the tube."

"You can't walk from Tufnell Park to Vauxhall! Don't be ridiculous – that must take at least two hours!"

"One hour fifty minutes, to be precise, my good Inspector. Don't worry, I'm used to it."

"Why don't you let me drive you? We're packing up here anyway and it's less than a ten minute drive from Vauxhall to the Yard, which is where I'm going now anyway."

Sherlock looked like he wanted to refuse, but had the conflicting opinion of desperately not wanting to trek home for two hours. He teetered on the verge of saying yes, and then saying no, and settled on not saying anything at all.

"Since you're in a limbo of indecision, let me decide for you: you'll come with me. Wait here while I pack up."

Minutes later they were in the cruiser, heading south. Lestrade had found Sherlock with Donovan stalking away from him, and was curious as to what had happened between the two of them. His mouth quirked up thinking about it. Lestrade was intrigued with the young man sitting beside him who he knew next to nothing about. But Sherlock didn't seem forthcoming with information.

After several attempts at conversation to find out more about Sherlock – _So, you have a brother? Unfortunately. Have you always liked detective work? Yes. Do you live with anyone? Yes and no. What do you mean "yes and no"? It's a long story Inspector. Are you from London originally? No. Will I guess where you hail from? You don't have to if you don't want to_ – he gave up. Sherlock was obviously uncomfortable with talking about himself, and the only personal details Lestrade managed to extract from him was his mobile phone number. But when Lestrade mentioned the cold case of the disappearance of the mother of four in Devon, Sherlock started talking incessantly.

When Lestrade rounded onto Lambeth High St, Sherlock told him he could be let out there.

"I'm really happy to keep taking you though."

"No matter Inspector, you're crossing the Lambeth Bridge to get to the Yard, and going further means driving past the bridge. And the overseeing DI cannot be late back to the Yard to give his findings, can he? And where I'm headed is just the next suburb."

There was truth in Sherlock's words, so Lestrade let him out. Contrary to Lestrade thinking Sherlock was simply being polite, the younger man didn't want Lestrade knowing where he headed. As Lestrade watched him retreat from the car his curiosity grew, but knowing he needed to go back to work, he shelved his interest and drove off.

**A/N: OK, so that's the first two chapters, and I'm expecting all the other chapters will be decidedly shorter than these two, probably about half the length. Both chapters were set-up/crime scene and I couldn't work out where to break it. **

**Also, in my personal headcanon, if Lestrade says in ASiP that he's shown Sherlock five years, and that's Jan 2010 (which is what John's blog says), then five years earlier than that is either late 2004 or early 2005. So I've opted for Lestrade having known Sherlock as long as possible. **

**Thanks for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

The chilly November night air was unforgiving on Lestrade's face, and it wasn't helping he was passing shops glowing warm yellow colours. It took all his will to keep his legs moving. Cursing his wife for needing the use his car today while hers was being repaired, he eagerly anticipated the delicious hot plate of dinner waiting for him at home. He thanked heaven Caroline was a superb cook. Lestrade had tried to cook some porridge once. Who would have thought that porridge sticks to walls like glue and can completely cover an entire kitchen? Well, on reflection, normal porridge probably doesn't, but the cook had been Lestrade. That does not make for normal porridge.

Suddenly, the window of Foyles bookstore that Lestrade was directly in front of went dark. Lestrade heard a few yelps of surprise from behind the glass window. The lights had extinguished with no warning. Duty-bound by his profession, he cracked opened the door in case it was something sinister – he wondered whether he could ask for overtime.

"Is everything all right in here?" Lestrade called out into the darkness.

A voice floated from somewhere in the dim light: "I think so, the bloody power's gone out!"

"Try the fuse box!" Greg instructed.

The shop wasn't completely blacked-out; light from the street was filtering through the windows and Greg could make out a tall woman moving through bookcases to the far end of the room. After she fiddled with the electricity for a few moments, the shop was again bathed in a warm orange glow. She turned back to Lestrade.

"All good," she smiled.

"Wonderful. I thought possibly a mastermind criminal had blacked out the lights to do God knows."

"Well, the temptation of the new translation of _War and Peace_ can sometimes be too much for a person who doesn't feel like shelling out ten quid."

Lestrade exited the shop, and resumed his stroll home. He had gone no further than the toy store right next to the bookshop when its lights, as well, went out. Lestrade didn't go in this time, but watched from the street as the manager scrambled to work the electricity. And, as before, the lights suddenly flooded the shop again like nothing had happened. Lestrade took three steps. The three steps brought him in line with the clothes shop next door, and his heart started racing when its lights went out as well.

For an experiment, he took three steps backwards, darkening the toy store again, and this time he gave the owners no time to turn the lights back on themselves before he started running. The second he past the boundary of the toy shop its lights came back on, plunging in turn each store Lestrade jogged in front of into darkness. Shop after shop was darkened and brightened as he ran past. After a while, outside the chemist he stopped, breathing deeply.

The darkness was following him.

"What a ridiculous thought," Lestrade muttered to himself. "Way to put it as dramatically as possible Greg."

Suddenly, his phone buzzed. He checked the text ID. Unknown number. Opening and scanning the message, his heart start racing even faster and he looked around wildly. _Yes, the darkness is following you. As are the CCTV cameras. _Wondering who the hell had set the message, his tightly clenched phone vibrated in his hand again. The same unknown number. _Get in the car, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade._

A shiny, new, black car slid up to the kerb. Although it sounded ridiculous in Lestrade's head, he thought it seemed to glide more smoothly than cars usually did. A suited man with white gloves stepped out, and wordlessly opened the door for Lestrade. The DI just turned around and started striding in the direction he had originally been going. He felt petrified, and as if his privacy had been violated – as though he and his private life was on display for the entire interested public. It was a horrible feeling. Suddenly, in front of him, two more black cars identical to the last appeared, and more suited men with white gloves got out and held the car doors open. A woman with auburn hair and a black dress who was texting on a mobile also slid out. Another text. _Now you have a choice; I must say that personally I usually prefer riding with the car parked in the middle. _

He thought about running away. Greg Lestrade was a good runner, and he often had a morning jog around the park near his house. He figured he could outrun these men quite easily. _Detective – the cars. You are wasting my precious time._

After a moment of indecision, he decided to get in the car. He figured if he were taken to the texter he'd be able to arrest them. And just to spite the unknown number, he clambered into the car parked in the front. That gave him a strange, vindictive pleasure. The woman climbed in with him and they sped off. The two sat in silence for a time.

"So," Lestrade broke the quiet, his voice forceful. "Where am I going?"

The woman glanced up at him with an amused expression on her face. Was she laughing at him? Lestrade didn't like the look at all. She paused in contemplation for a few moments before replying: "You'll find out when we get there."

"I figured as much, thanks," he huffed, and decided to try again. "What's your name?"

"Um…I feel like…Anthea," she nodded.

"You _feel_ like Anthea?" he asked, eyebrow raised. "So that's not your real name?"

She gave a faint chortle, and glanced back up at Lestrade, looking annoyingly knowing.

"What do you think?"

"No, I don't think it is. You make it up?" she nodded. "Fan of Greek mythology, are you?"

"Good…I think my boss will like you."

"It's not a good omen you're naming yourself after the goddess of war. I'm not sure what that means I'm getting myself into."

"Quick, aren't you? Normal people often don't pick up on anagrams."

The words worried Lestrade: who on earth could this employer be? "Anthea" didn't seem to want to talk any longer, so he contented himself with looking out of the windows. They were now driving through a very upmarket part of town Lestrade had never been to. Soon, the car turned into the driveway of a very posh looking white building. Lestrade read the sign on the car's way in: _The Diogenes Club_. He'd never heard of it. The stately location didn't surprise Lestrade, judging by the manipulation of the electricity in fifteen different shops plus the expensive cars and men in expensive suits.

The car door was opened for him again – Lestrade decided that he wouldn't mind someone employed to do that for him all the time. It was quite nice. He was led up a lift that took him directly from the car park to a large room furnished as if it were taken straight out of a more conservative office in Buckingham Palace. When the doors slid open the DI stepped out to be face to face with a man in an expensive beige and grey three-piece suit leaning his weight on a black umbrella. Lestrade noted that having the umbrella was strange. Not only had it not rained in London since Monday three days ago, and no rain was forecast until Saturday – but they were _inside_. Lestrade pushed it away. Some people were strange. Irrationally, Lestrade was a bit relieved that the man's suit wasn't black like everything else had been so far. It seemed to alleviate the threat slightly. The man smiled slyly.

"Good evening, Detective Inspector Lestrade."

* * *

**A/N: Hey everyone, sorry for it being a while since the last update! The teachers have really started piling us with work now, so frequency of updates might be a bit erratic, sorry :( But I am still always working on it, definitely! Thanks so much to everyone who's followed/favourited/reviewed, you're awesome :)**

**Also, thanks to Rouge Singer who pointed out that I hadn't explained the anagram in this chapter very well, and it was obscure as to what I was talking about, which I've now fixed, hopefully! :)**


	4. Chapter 4

"Take a seat Detective, I'm sure the Kate Moon case is keeping you fairly occupied with paperwork, and you had quite a walk from the office before I picked you up."

Lestrade was dumfounded. He had no idea how this stranger could have access to the Met's top-secret casework – and he didn't even think anyone had entered this case into the official files yet. He glanced to the proffered seat. It was tall, inviting and very comfortable-looking. And it was true he was tired and worn-out, and wanted nothing more than to sink into a red velvet chair and put his feet up. Then again, he wanted to put his feet up at home, home where he could have a steaming cup of tea in his hand, a warm dinner and a telly. Here, he needed his wits.

"No thank you. You seem to know who I am, so you'll know that I have the power to arrest you. I demand an explanation. Who are you?" Lestrade's voice had acquired its harsh aggressiveness used to deal with hardened and misbehaving criminals. DI Lestrade was almost unrecognisable as the person as Greg.

"That question is quite irrelevant at this stage, Detective."

"That question is not irrelevant and that question will be answered, thank you. And follow your answer with an explanation as to why I'm here, if you'd be so kind."

The man considered him for a moment, his mouth perked up slightly.

"I am here to inquire as to the nature of your relationship with one Sherlock Holmes," he replied to the DI's words smoothly, quite unfazed.

"You haven't answered the first question. I say nothing until you tell me who you are with proof of identification. I am a senior police officer who can have you arrested under charges of kidnapping, hacking, and harassment," Lestrade threatened.

For reasons unbeknownst to Lestrade, this seemed to thoroughly amuse the stranger.

"My dear Inspector," he began, his voice turning dangerously silky, "I hold a position in the British Government so high that, among other things, I can control all of the police's arrests, I can control New Scotland Yard's computer systems, and I can control the power grid, as you have seen demonstrated tonight."

Lestrade knew it was stupid, but gave it a try anyway: "I don't believe you. I want proof. Who are you?"

The man knew he would get nowhere with the obstinate detective, and so dug in the breast pocket of his jacket for an ID.

"I am Sherlock Holmes' brother, Mycroft Holmes."

Lestrade had a brief thought about eccentric and slightly cruel parents, and the possibility of implementing a sensible baby naming law. But then glancing at Mycroft's ID, his mouth fell open into a prefect, comical 'O'. He read it again, read it once more, snatched it to check if it was a counterfeit – which it wasn't – and gave it back to Mycroft, feeling suddenly rather inferior.

"So, I will ask again," Mycroft continued, pocketing the ID. "What is the nature of your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"

Lestrade found his voice with an added strength, as he felt he had to now assert himself even more: "Why should you want to know?"

Mycroft smiled again, that same smile Anthea had worn in the car. "You've met my brother twice Detective Inspector," Mycroft's smile slid off his face in an instant. "I constantly worry. You've seen him; he does not look after himself and thinks that looking after his own health is the epitome of dull. Watching out for him is a serious matter, as no one else, including Sherlock himself, will take on that responsibility. So I have to screen all of his contacts. Now, I shall ask one more time, and I expect either an answer or a very much unemployed ex-DI Lestrade: what is the nature of your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"

Lestrade believed the threat whole-heartedly, but still made it clear he was standing his ground.

"I've met him twice – as you know. I don't really know much about him…"

"Are you thinking of continuing your relations?"

"Um, well, he seems like an outstanding detective, I'd like to continue work relations with him if that would be possible, and he seems in agreement –"

"But," Mycroft interrupted, "you've also developed an intense curiosity in him, one that he doesn't feed for his lack of wanting to 'let anyone in'. You'd like further affiliations, extending beyond work. Friendship affiliations?"

Lestrade paused. It was true, and Mycroft seemed to be able to get inside his head to know what he was thinking. He could probably also do that Science of Deduction thing that Sherlock liked doing, Lestrade thought. He wondered if the entire Holmes family was this strange. He wasn't sure he'd ever like to meet the patriarch of the family; he didn't know what he'd expect.

"I'm not going to bother lying to you, because you'd see right through it: yes."

Mycroft nodded, pleased that Lestrade had recognised this. But he was also a bit unnerved by Lestrade's manner as he spoke to him; the DI wasn't submitting to the lower hand and he didn't do everything Mycroft instructed. But it wasn't just that. Though initially impressed with Mycroft's position, he now seemed to disregard it, and his manner was unintimidated, something that was completely new to Mycroft. He felt slightly wrong-footed. He didn't betray that in his actions or face though, and instead affirmed his power further.

"I background checked you and your family, Gregory Lestrade," Lestrade started at this information, "and have deemed you suitable to continue to associate with my brother. Naturally, I have him monitored via an assortment of methods – bugging, cameras, CCTV, and a team assigned to watch Sherlock. I want to warn you about what you are agreeing to go into though. Sherlock is exposed to the underground battle in London. I'm sure you see it everyday. But he is personally affected. He is a part of it, and he is, in himself, another battle entirely."

"I saw pockmarks on his arm today. And he looks…sick. Does he take drugs?"

Mycroft titled his head down, but kept his eyes up and on Lestrade.

"He does not like me interfering too strongly with his affairs, but I will say that he has certain…recreational pleasures that are detrimental to him. I am very opposed to this, and have tried to ween him off these habits through rehabilitation centres, but he refuses help from me. We have a complex relationship at best. He also has certain living habits that are unsavoury, but again, help from me is completely deterred."

"Are you getting at…"

"Yes. I would offer you money to –"

"I don't need a monetary incentive to help him get on track. There's something about him that I like, I think he's very interesting. Very complex."

"Even though he was rude to you?"

"He was rude, brusque and upfront, but my instincts told me that he's hiding something."

Mycroft was nodding again.

"I think you would be very good for my brother, Inspector. It is not often – in fact, it is never – that someone meets Sherlock and takes a liking to him. I would still be willing to offer you a fee though?"

"No. Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, here is my phone number. Should you need anything from me, or need to contact me, feel free any time. If I am unavailable your call will be taken by my PA, and it will reach me with immediate priority."

Lestrade took the business card offered by Mycroft.

"Here, I'll give you my – actually, no. You have my number. You were texting me before."

Mycroft smiled his enigmatic smile. It irritated Lestrade a bit; his face was inscrutable and you never exactly sure what he was thinking. Lestrade still didn't know how Mycroft had got his number – and he wasn't sure if he wanted to find out.

"Well, I'll be off now," Lestrade bud his goodbye.

"Farewell, Detective Inspector. My PA will be waiting for you to drive you home, and I shall be in contact soon, I expect. I am very thankful towards you. And," Lestrade turned around, about to leave through the door, "good luck."

Lestrade nodded. He wondered what exactly he was getting himself into as the black car sped off once more, now, thankfully, in the direction of Lestrade's house. Caroline had one hell of a story to hear.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock kept popping up at Lestrade's crime scenes, offering either the vital clue if they were almost finished, or solving the case from start to end. Sometimes Lestrade would text and invite Sherlock, and sometimes Sherlock would just come of his own accord. On the first crime scene after Lestrade's meeting with – or, abduction by, as Lestrade thought of it – Mycroft, he sidled over to Sherlock while the consulting detective was examining an earring belonging to the victim. He was slightly hunched over, staring at the piece of jewellery intensely, holding it right up to his eye, as though trying to differentiate each atom of the silver.

"I met your brother the other day," Lestrade remarked casually.

The effect was instantaneous. Sherlock paused and stayed stock-still, so still that if Greg didn't know better, he would have thought Sherlock was carved out of wood; and though his eyes didn't move they unfocused from the earring and simply stared ahead. A couple of seconds later, however, he unfroze. His eyes refocused on the earring and he kept inspecting it as he muttered, trying to act as nonchalant as possible.

Greg had to lean it to hear what Sherlock was saying to himself, but he thought it sounded like: "_Bloody Mycroft can't keep his sodding great nose out of my life_."

Sherlock then paused again, and woodenly straightened up.

"Did you take the money?" his voice was sharp, and his eyes darted over suspiciously to look at Lestrade.

"The…how do you know about the money?"

"The money to spy on me. Of course I know why he kidnaps everyone who comes in remote contact with me. _Did you take it?_"

"No!" Greg was indignant that Sherlock would think he would cave into bribery.

Sherlock simply shrugged.

"Well, like I thought, it was the nephew. This woman and her sister had a major falling-out – the victim was left the majority of the two women's father's money in his will and refused to give any to her sister. Taking his mother's side, the nephew decided to take personal revenge on his avaricious aunt."

Sherlock and Lestrade began to leave as the team packed up the crime scene. In the cruiser, Lestrade decided to broach the subject of Mycroft again.

"So, you and your brother don't get on very well?"

Sherlock's eyes once again darted suspiciously to glare at Greg.

"Well, the one time you mentioned him you sort of spat his name out, and then said it was 'unfortunate' you have a brother. I'm not stupid," Lestrade winked.

"Hm," Sherlock looked reasonably impressed. "You're more perceptive than I thought."

"Also, talking to your brother, I got the impression that your relationship isn't very good. Doesn't take a genius to work it out."

"God knows it mustn't have," Sherlock muttered softly.

He took to glaring out of the window. Lestrade knew that Sherlock wasn't enjoying this conversation; especially by the way his hands were slightly clenched into fists. But he pursued it anyway.

"So, you don't get on well?" Lestrade repeated.

"My brother and I have long ago come to an understanding to not understand each other. He doesn't understand why I won't follow in the 'noble footsteps of the Holmes family', and I don't understand how he can be such a treacherous git. He follows me and I avoid him. He annoys me by following and contacting me, I annoy him by not doing what he wants."

"Why don't you like him? He seems very concerned about you; it seems that he likes you."

Sherlock snorted.

"Very funny Inspector. He doesn't like me; he is responsible for me, and he promised mummy no harm would come to me. He _has_ to keep me safe under his wing. He has no choice. And you ask why there's no big family reconciliation so that I accept his help and we all live happily ever after? You see, over fifteen years of negative history between us is a lot to overcome. It won't happen."

Sherlock quietened, and took to looking back out of the window. The crime scene had been fairly close to New Scotland Yard that day, and the drive wasn't a long one. As they approached the Yard, Lestrade was fully intending to drive past to cross the bridge to Lambeth and Vauxhall, but Sherlock stopped him.

"Drop me off here Inspector, I can walk. You shouldn't go further than necessary."

"No it's all right! Here Sherlock, how about I take you all the way home today?"

Sherlock smiled – Lestrade couldn't work out whether it was sardonic or derisive or something else entirely – and shook his head.

"No, I really don't think that's a very good idea."

There was something strange about Sherlock's tone.

"Seriously Lestrade," Sherlock's voice dropped to a more earnest one, "let me out. You don't have to take me home."

"Why not?"

"Because you need to get back to the Yard, and where I'm going is very out of the way for you."

"Sherlock," Lestrade's voice mirrored Sherlock's in sincerity and authority, "I want to see where you live."

"Well good luck getting me there if I don't tell you where to go."

Lestrade sighed. He knew he'd lost the battle, so dropped Sherlock off and watched the detective's coat swoop away from the cruiser. He turned the car around with a twinge of regret and piqued curiosity.

The next several cases Sherlock declined lifts altogether, lest Greg try to drive him all the way again. Twice Sherlock had shown up at a crime scene Lestrade had to turn him away because Sherlock's pupils resembled pound coins and he darted energetically and talked incessantly. In those moments no matter how good he was, Lestrade couldn't accept his help. Greg would watch him go with guilt billowing inside him for putting him on the streets alone in such a vulnerable position, but he couldn't leave the crime scenes. All he wanted was for Sherlock to be off the drugs.

It was a blustery, cold early morning that Lestrade was called to a crime in progress around Lambeth again; it was one of the poorer suburbs of London and the crime rate was high. The sun hadn't quite risen yet, and it was the time of the morning where everything looked deep blue, and though it wasn't dark, it wasn't light either. Arriving at the scene he found himself in a wide, dingy, dark alleyway that was home to people sleeping rough – sleeping bags lay on the ground and by the light of his torch Lestrade could make out figures all around him. They were huddled at the opposite end of the alley, petrified of what was going on ahead.

He advanced slowly as he could see the commotion at the end of the street, and his torch shone over something that reflected the light back. It was a gun. He drew his own weapon; he was dealing with a possibly life-threatening situation. Lestrade had done this many times before, but his heart always pounded sickeningly hard, right up in his throat. He ignored the worried, unsettled feeling in his stomach and pressed on, down the alley. As he approached closer, the scene was made clearer.

A man was holding two others at gunpoint. The aggressor was tall, thin, and with short-cropped hair. Lestrade's attention moved to the hostages, and felt sick at the sight of both of them. The shorter was standing rigid, scared witless, a young boy who looked only around fifteen years old. He was obviously homeless going by his slovenly clothes and bedraggled face, and his eyes darted worriedly around the place, trying to find a way out somehow. Seeing a police officer on the scene, his face visibly relaxed slightly.

The second hostage made Lestrade's heart drop to the bottom of his stomach. He was a tall figure, with a long black coat and scruffy black curls on his head. He stood, looking quite at ease, completely juxtaposed with the boy he was next to. _Of course – Vauxhall borders Lambeth. _Sherlock glanced over at Lestrade languidly.

"Police!" Greg cried, his voice emanating authority in waves.

The armed man whipped his eyes around to look at Lestrade, but kept the gun pointing steadily at Sherlock and the boy. His two hostages were backed up against a wall where there was a row of sliding dark red metal doors. It looked like a row of disused garages. Some of the doors further down were open, and Lestrade noted that they were in fact being informally used, filled with sleeping bags, dirty and frayed couches and rickety tables. It looked like the homeless lived in them.

"Don't move! Move and I shoot them – both of them! I'll kill them!"

Sherlock snorted: "Terribly optimistic of you."

"Terr – what's _terribly optimistic?_ What do you mean?" the gunman spat.

"Terribly optimistic of you to predict the outcome of you besting me in a fight. No, I don't think so. Any undertaking of the sort against me would be woefully misinformed. You see, I'm afraid there are two rather large problems with your plan: I am me, and you are you."

"Sherlock," Greg was terse, and didn't want any provocations. Sherlock may have been convinced of his fighting ability and immortality, but Greg wasn't.

"Really Inspector, it's all fine. Lestrade, I'd like you to meet Robert Whitehall, your killer regarding the triple murder on the south bank of the Thames."

"One more word, and you're dead!" the killer yelled at Sherlock.

The sandy-haired young boy froze in terror again, and Lestrade's heart went out to him in sympathy.

"I'm going to ask you to lower your weapon sir," Lestrade instructed.

"No! You think I'm an idiot? I do that, and I know you'll splatter my brains onto this pavement with your own gun!"

"If you lower your weapon I wouldn't do such a thing, as the law would go against me. However, should you keep your weapon up now, or fire, the charges against you will be all the more severe."

"Think I care? I've got enough against me as it is!"

"Two more deaths at your hand would increase your charges considerably. I'm going to ask you again to lower your weapon."

"No!"

"Sir," Lestrade warned, his voice harsh, "if you fire your weapon now at those two, I will be forced to shoot you as well. This is your warning."

The atmosphere was so icy that the tension was almost tangible. Greg was sure that he'd be able to cut through it with a knife if he tried. Everyone waited for the attacker to make a move. The only person whose body seemed to not be wracked with fraught tension was Sherlock. He seemed perfectly calm. In the distance, Lestrade could hear his back up arriving, and prayed that, with the other officers helping, they'd soon have all of this under control. If only they'd hurry.

Suddenly, the young boy dashed to the side and behind where Sherlock stood in an attempt to escape. In that second, all hell broke loose. The assailant fired his gun, and Lestrade was forced to fire his in turn, aiming for the non-fatal position of his leg. Both bullets missed their target, and ricocheted off the walls to land on the ground. Sherlock then lunged at the attacker, trying to bring him down. Two loud bangs exploded from the ends of both guns once more, and this time there were two cries of pain. Two fell to the floor. Followed by one short syllable of deafening silence.

**A/N: Well…I didn't mean to shoot anyone so early on in the story, but here it is! Ta very much to everyone still reading this! A special thank you to everyone who has reviewed, followed and favourited, you make my day! :) Don't forget to leave a comment if you feel like it ;)**

**And one of the lines in this story cannot be credited to me, but to the wonderful John Finnemore. Can anyone find it? ;)**


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock let out a strangled yell as he let go of Robert Whitehall. As Whitehall fell to the ground, screaming in pain at Lestrade's well-placed bullet lodged in his leg, Sherlock ran to the sandy-haired youth. He lay completely still on the ground. Lestrade watched, feeling sick, as he saw the always cold, distant Sherlock crouch by the boy's side. A pool of blood was forming.

Greg ran over to see if he could help, and was relieved to find that the wound, though in the chest, had just avoided any vital organs and blood vessels and wasn't a fatal shot. Sherlock's hands shook, dithering over the boy. Greg dialled 999 as he listened to Sherlock trying to wake the boy up and apply pressure to the wound. He could have had professional medical training. Greg thought that it was good his voice at least sounded calm.

"Sherlock, it's all right," Greg knelt down next to him, hanging up the phone. "Ambulance will be here in five minutes; it was very nearby, luckily. And the wound position –"

"I know, I know Lestrade, non-fatal below the heart and lungs and missing any major blood vessels. Heaven knows I'm not an idiot," Sherlock turned his full attention back to the kid, and Lestrade could hear him talking soothingly to him. "Don't worry William, hang on, the ambulance will be here soon."

Lestrade went over to Robert Whitehall, who was being tended to by Donovan and MacPherson.

"Donovan, that's our man."

"Pardon, sir?" she muttered distractedly, creating a tourniquet to wrap around Whitehall's leg.

"I know this isn't the best time, but that's our killer for the Thames south bank murders."

Her head whipped around, eyebrows raised.

"Can you ride with him to keep him in police custody?" he asked Donovan. "I need to sort out Sherlock, I'll be in contact once you're there."

"Yeah, of course sir."

At that moment the ambulances screamed around the corner and stopped at the head of the alley. Paramedics rushed out and collected William and Robert Whitehall. Sherlock watched William being taken away. Other medics were attempting to sit Sherlock and down and drape a shock blanket over him.

"I'm _fine!_ Let me go!" he threw the blanket off himself and pushed away the clamouring people.

Sherlock's usual mask on his face was creased with worry, and he tried to follow into the back of the ambulance. The paramedic argued exasperatedly with him.

"I'm sorry sir, you're just simply not allowed to come in here."

"His family wouldn't be bothered with knowing he's in hospital!"

"Please sir," the paramedic barred him from the ambulance as the doors were closed on William.

Greg rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and lightly led him off to one side. Sherlock looked murderous, and then quickly wrenched away from Lestrade and spun to flee into one of the open garages. The door slammed shut with a metallic clang, and something in Lestrade's brain clicked. _Sherlock was living in one of those garages?_ He remembered Sherlock's answer to whether or not he lived with anyone: yes and no.

Lestrade trod towards the dark red door with small, careful steps, and reaching the one Sherlock had disappeared behind, he knocked. There was no answer. So he tried again, while noticing the grey lever towards the bottom of the metal sheet. He knelt down to wrench it open. But just he was reaching for the lever, he heard a loud _click!_ from the inside, and he knew that Sherlock had padlocked the door. So he stood up and called softly through the metal.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, could you let me in? Please? It's Lestrade. Please open the door."

He sighed when he was met with a stony silence from inside the garage. But he knew it was to be expected. After checking if his fingers could fit through the crack that was made between the faulty door and the hard concrete ground, he whipped out a phone and fired off a text.

For some reason Greg found it slightly amusing when he heard the received message tone ding one foot away from him. _Let me in and I'll get you in to see William with police favours_. Success: there was a loud click and the door swung open. Greg jumped back just in time to not be whacked in the face by a large sheet of metal.

"Thank you," he sighed.

He was slightly taken aback at Sherlock's appearance; though he had looked distraught before, his face was now so woodenly blank one would think he was a painting. The breeze ruffled his long coat, and he stood, watching Lestrade like a hawk waiting for his prey to make the first move. So followed by Sherlock's fixed gaze, Greg stepped in.

It was a small garage, and it was certainly not your typical makeshift house. On the right side was a couch with a blanket draped over it for sleeping and a table and pot for making tea. Spanning the entire left wall was a long wooden bench with colourful test tubes, retorts, chemicals, old microscopes, glass slides and specimens. Lestrade's eyebrows almost disappeared into his hair.

"Courtesy of Mycroft. I only let him give me them because staying alive was becoming so boring without distractions to the point of being a complete waste of time. And if I let him do that, he would stop trying to abduct me and lock me in his house."

"So…you live here?"

"Only when I'm kicked out of my real flat because I didn't pay the rent. Or, the landlord kicks me out because he finds out about the experiments. I don't really care though."

Indeed, Sherlock's manner was very nonchalant and casual about it. He genuinely didn't seem to care, which astonished Lestrade. Suddenly, something caught Greg's eye, and his heart sunk slightly. It was a small black box next to a tourniquet. Lestrade knew what was in there; a syringe, and a small bag of white powder. Sherlock noticed Lestrade's face droop slightly, and followed Greg's gaze toward the box.

"Forget that," Sherlock swiftly swiped it up and deftly deposited it behind the couch.

"Sherlock, why do you take cocaine?" Lestrade's voice was quiet, and gentler.

Sherlock, being Sherlock, noticed this.

"Because I have to! I'm bored. There's nothing else to do!"

Lestrade eyed him. Greg had a feeling he was telling the truth, but he also had a feeling that Sherlock wasn't telling the whole truth. There was something else. Though determined to find out, he decided to leave it for later. Sherlock marched to the doorway and looked at Lestrade expectantly.

"Well? You said you'd get me in to see William. I let you in, now you have to uphold your end of the deal."

"Yeah, I need to talk to you about that. Who is that kid?"

"William."

"I worked out as much for myself, thanks. No, who is he? How do you know him?"

"He lives in the next garage. Fifteen, ran away from home. He's…we made closer acquaintance than I usually make with people – he didn't seem to mind me the way other people do."

"So his family's still out there?" Sherlock nodded. "In London?" Sherlock nodded again. "Can you give me his last name? We'll need to notify his parents."

"I don't know it; he wouldn't give it to me himself so he couldn't be tracked."

Lestrade would have to get around this. But for now, Sherlock was raising his eyebrows impatiently at Lestrade, nodding to the door, so Lestrade took DS Cook aside and instructed him to find William's family. He jogged over to the cruiser at Sherlock's impatient cry of "_Inspector! Now!_" and hit the gas.

Lestrade was hanging up the phone when Sherlock came out.

"Visiting hours over?" Lestrade asked, to which Sherlock jerked his head, looking slightly disgruntled at being thrown out of William's room.

"He'll make a full recovery, they expect."

Sherlock started striding off without another word. Lestrade jogged to catch him as Sherlock's legs and strides were very long.

"Hey Sherlock, listen. I want you to come and stay with me for a while; I've called Caroline and she's said it's fine. Just for a very short time," he added, seeing Sherlock's face crinkle distastefully, "only until you get on your feet with a new flat. We've got a massive spare bedroom for guests, and plus, my place is much closer to the hospital than your…garage is."

Sherlock saw the undeniable logic of the arrangement. "What did happen to your last place anyway?"

"Couldn't pay the rent. Refused Mycroft's help. He usually helps with payments – against my will. When I go to the landlord to pay, apparently by some happy coincidence it's always already been paid. Bloody Mycroft," he added in a venomous undertone.

"Well we could get you another place pretty quickly. It's only a temporary arrangement. I just simply can't let you live in a _disused garage_. It would be dereliction of duty as a police officer if I let you go on how you are."

Sherlock thought about it quietly as they approached the car. He still didn't answer the whole time they got in and drove off.

"I won't let you help with cases," Greg threatened.

"Fine! I'll do it. Only for a couple of days though," Greg smirked at the wonderful blackmail material and made a note to use it in future.

"Where did all your money go?" Lestrade asked, but he knew the answer fully well.

"Other, more worthy expenses."

Greg knew what that meant. He sighed again as they started driving to Lestrade's home. He was going to get Sherlock on track if it killed him. And he was certain that his previously salt-and-pepper hair had started going steel grey much faster in the last month. Lestrade was sure it had nothing to do with natural ageing. But he would do it. He would stick by the consulting detective; there was just something about Sherlock that made Greg want to protect and help him in every way.

"Oh, but Sherlock?" Sherlock looked up. "No drugs in my house."

Sherlock scowled heavily: "And if you refuse to come back with me, remember what I said about no cases?"

Knotting his arms so tightly across his chest that Lestrade doubted they'd ever unwrap, Sherlock slid down the car seat and glowered even more.

"Careful sunshine, the wind might change and your face'll be stuck like that forever!"

Greg looked out of the corner of his eye, and was thoroughly surprised to see Sherlock's mouth twitch, almost cracking a smile. Greg then noticed that there had been no protest when he called Sherlock "sunshine". Realising that made him grin. He thought it was a curious thing for Sherlock to not be annoyed about, but wasn't going to complain.

"And you wouldn't want to be stuck looking like you've just stepped in something awful for the rest of your life. It'll deter the girls," Greg snickered.

"Girlfriends are not really my area," Sherlock muttered delicately.

Lestrade's eyebrows shot up. Head staying still his eyes slid sideways to glance at Sherlock.

"Er…are boyfriends 'your area' then?"

"Nope."

"So, nothing's really your area? You're just not interested."

"Pretty much."

Greg nodded, having nothing to say to that. Luckily for Greg, Sherlock broke the silence.

"We're stopping by to pick up my violin."

Lestrade agreed, noticing it was a statement and not a question. But then he suddenly became wary of Sherlock slipping into his garage and locking the door, or picking up the black leather box as well.

"And," Sherlock added, as if reading his mind, "I won't lock myself into the garage again, I'll just come straight out. Nor will I get the black box."

Lestrade was astounded how Sherlock had seemed to read his mind, but chalked it down to his being a Holmes – a weird family they must be – and drove on to Sherlock's garage.


	7. Chapter 7

When Caroline Lestrade opened the door, Greg noticed that as the warmth from inside the house blew over Sherlock, his features lit up slightly, and his body slightly unfurled and became less tense. Lestrade realised just how cold Sherlock must have been feeling, and reflected with a shudder what winter nights must be like in Sherlock's garage. The metal and concrete room would just make the room even more frigid, and he remembered the crack in the door, which would let in a nasty draught. Caroline beamed at their new houseguest.

"And you must be Sherlock Holmes! Yes, Greg's told me lots about you, do come in! My name's Caroline," she shook his hand, which Sherlock had warily extended, scanning her from head to toe. Then he shrugged, and deeming her trustworthy enough, shook her hand with slightly more vigour, and swept inside.

"Hey darling," Greg greeted her. "Listen, um, whatever he says, don't get upset. It's nothing personal against you, and he wouldn't be trying to offend you – he's not great socially. Doesn't know the right and wrong things to say."

Through the relatively short time of knowing him, Greg had had enough experience with Sherlock's quick and acerbic tongue during his verbal battles with the rest of the police officers. Caroline nodded, unfazed. The Lestrades followed Sherlock in through to the living room, where his calculating eyes swept every surface.

"I'm sorry to hear that your friend is in hospital Sherlock. How are you feeling?" Caroline asked.

"Well you'd know from experience," Sherlock muttered.

The Lestrades exchanged glances; Caroline confused and Greg worried.

"What do you mean?" Caroline wondered.

Greg tried to interject to stop the ensuing explanation that he could see coming, but Sherlock had already started.

"Experience with the death of a best friend quite young."

"Sherlock," Greg interrupted loudly, "how about I take you to your room?"

"But –"

"_Now_, sunshine. Come on."

Greg dragged Sherlock from the company of a stunned Caroline and into the guest room. After Sherlock gave his sleeping area an inspection, Greg looked at him sternly.

"Listen now. Please, try not to make any deductions for a while on Caroline. Please?"

"It's part of my nature. I don't try to make deductions, it just happens."

"Well, how about you make deductions, but try to keep them in your head, all right?"

Sherlock scowled, but agreed. It was something about Greg that made Sherlock agree to things. Greg knew that Mycroft desperately wanted tips.

Later as Lestrade watched telly and Caroline cooked, Sherlock stretched on the couch eagerly reading case files Lestrade had given him that were lying around the house, and tried to wave off dinner.

"Stop devouring those case files and devour this instead please."

"I'm fine thank you Lestrade," he told Greg.

"Seriously Sherlock, you look more like a skeleton than is normal. While you're here you eat."

"Is that the reason I came here? Not hospital proximity, but for shoving food into my mouth?" Sherlock asked disdainfully.

"Yes."

"What day is it?"

"Monday."

"I'm fine then, I don't need dinner. But thank you for the offer."

"When was the last time you ate dear?" Caroline asked, concerned by Sherlock's question.

Greg caught on, and looked shocked that Sherlock possibly hadn't eaten for days.

"Sunday morning. Like I said, I won't need anything until Wednesday, and since it's Monday that's plenty of time."

"Sherlock!" Caroline cried, scandalised.

"Don't worry, I'm used to it. It's _fine_."

"It is very much not fine! How could you not let him eat Greg? Come here!"

She placed her hand on his back, in between his shoulder blades, and with the unexpected touch from a near stranger, every muscle in Sherlock's body froze. She noticed his tension.

"Oh, sorry dear!" she retracted her hand as quickly as if it had been burning and Sherlock relaxed. She extended her arm. "Take my hand?" she asked.

Sherlock eyed it, thought, and gingerly placed his hand in hers. He was impressed. She'd worked out that Sherlock liked to be in control of who he touched. He loathed any contact. But he needed to please society, so he would let others touch him, but only with his consent and if he made the first move. He hated people rubbing shoulders with him, placing their hands on him – arm, shoulder, back, anywhere – and Sherlock couldn't stand them doing it without asking him first. That way he could steer clear of unwanted contact. Caroline led Sherlock to the table, guided him into the chair forcefully but gently, and piled extra onto his plate.

"Eat," she ordered.

She and Greg joined him at their places, and started to eat. Sherlock delicately nibbled one bite of his food, and by Jove, it was _good._ He had another, and another, and very soon he was cleaning the plate that had had two servings piled onto it. He hadn't realised how excellent a proper hearty dinner was when you had only eaten three small meals in the last week. Caroline and Greg looked at each other, and grinned. Sherlock asked for seconds.

* * *

Caroline opened her eyes into darkness. She wondered briefly why she'd awoken, and then realised. There was a gorgeous sound floating from the guest room below them and coming up into the master bedroom. She glanced to Greg, breathing deeply in rest, put to sleep by the violin. Caroline listened to the song. It was mournful, downhearted, but there was something delicate and beautiful about it.

As the music swept over her, her mind turned to thoughts about Sherlock: thin, not eating, homeless, probably cold continuously in winter, sunken eyes, a drug-user – but he was a genius, a detective prodigy and a beautiful virtuoso violin player. He had talent abound. She knew he could get himself a job easily, and wondered what had driven him to the streets. She supposed she would never know, but the music told her everything about him. Sherlock was excellent at deducing people's lives from observing them, but Caroline was excellent at deducing people's _emotional_ lives. She lay, her eyelids drooping. The music was so soft and gentle. A solitary tear rolled slowly down her cheek for Sherlock, and she drifted off into a deep slumber again.

When she next opened her eyes, bright light filtered through the curtains and, to her great disappointment, she found, the music had stopped. There was only a silent stillness that had settled over the house. She waited for Greg to wake up.

"Morning darling," she chirped.

"Morning," he smiled.

"Did you hear the music last night?" she asked.

"Yeah – timed well. I couldn't get to sleep, so it was a relief when it started up around 1:30."

"It was – sad…what do you know of Sherlock's past? Is he – OK?"

"I don't know anything. He's not the reminiscent type, you know? And likewise," Greg sighed heavily, rolling onto his stomach, "I really don't know if he's OK."

She thought of what he'd said, knew Greg worried, and the pair sat in silent contemplation for a while. Then she threw off the covers of the bed.

"Fry-up?" she asked.

"Yes please! Ta love, that would be wonderful," Greg answered, rolling back onto his back and studying the ceiling.

* * *

Sherlock was sat on the couch, sinking into the soft, red cushions. His eyes flicked from photo to photo on the wall. He clasped his hands together in a ball on his lap, then let them go of each other, then clasped them, then let go. His foot tapped. He drummed his fingers in a tattoo on the oval coffee table. It took all his will to not scream. Greg could plainly see his agitation, so stood and threw a packet of cigarettes to Sherlock along with a lighter. Sherlock picked one up, and threw it away distastefully.

"Try it. It might take away the coke craving."

Sherlock glared at the white box, now spilling thin white sticks.

"Ever smoked?" Greg asked him.

"Once. Other things were more interesting than cigarettes."

"Well, I don't like to make you addicted to cigarettes, but it's a damn sight better than being a coke addict."

Sherlock picked one up, caught Lestrade's lighter, and lit the cigarette. He scrunched his face up slightly when breathing in, but it seemed to relieve his tension. Greg tried to move the violin that was lying, out of its case, next to Sherlock on the couch to sit there as well. Sherlock's arm shot out to whack Greg's.

"_Don't_ touch the violin," Sherlock voice was sharp.

"Sorry," Greg quickly brought his hands away from it. There was a pause. "It's a very handsome violin. Very nice."

"Yes; it's a Stradivarius," Greg whistled, impressed. "And that's why you do not touch it."

Greg sat on the armchair facing the couch instead and lit his own cigarette.

"We're going to have to somehow get the smell out of the house before Caroline gets home from work; she hates smoking in the house."

"You do realise," Sherlock said, blowing out, "that now you're going to have to wean me off two deadly addictions? Yes, I know about your little _meetings_ with Mycroft. And yes, I know what you talk about. I'm not stupid. Well, I'm _certainly_ not stupid."

"Let's take it one at a time, hey?"

Sherlock snorted.

"Sherlock, I'm serious."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in mocking agreement, and flicked the stick coming out of his mouth. He put out the cigarette and threw the butt across the room, getting it right in the bin. Greg nodded in approval.

"I'm not addicted you know," he told Lestrade. "I just like it."

_Well_, Greg conceded, _his withdrawal symptoms are certainly less pronounced than usual_. Even though Sherlock had started trying to avoid Caroline because of the slight anxiety and paranoia, and he was now often more brooding than usual, Sherlock was handling the situation well, Greg thought. He supposed it was the constant mental stimulation Sherlock was being provided with. Lestrade was unaware that every two or three days he was creeping out in the dead of night for an hour to have a hit.

"Your hair looks like it needs a wash," Greg commented.

Sherlock stood and strode into the bathroom, making Lestrade stop. Was he actually going to go and have a shower and wash his hair because Lestrade had told him to? That couldn't possibly be true. No, it wasn't true, because a few moments later Sherlock appeared back in the living room.

"Sorry Lestrade, you don't have the right shampoo."

"Huh?"

"I use nothing except my special one."

Greg tried not to snort: "Well how about we go looking for it tomorrow?" Sherlock shrugged.

* * *

Greg sat on the stool at the island bench of the kitchen attentively. Caroline hurried through the kitchen, looking, as Greg noted, utterly gorgeous in the sequinned red dress and her black hair brought up loosely around her head. She put her gold clutch on the bench to take out the pasta.

"Now Greg," he nodded, "this is the pasta. First pour some water into this pot up to here," she indicated halfway up the inside of the metal. "Then put it on the stove –"

"Wait, I'm going to take notes."

"You really don't need to – just listen. Put water in the pot up to here. Put the pot on the stove. Turn the gas flame to high, that's hard clockwise, and wait until you can hear it boiling vigorously. If you want, you can put the lid on to speed up the cooking. Then pour three handfuls of pasta in once it's boiling, and without the lid let it cook and taste it after ten minutes. Once it's done, drain it into this colander. Have you got that, dear?"

"Yes," Greg confirmed confidently.

"Water in the pot. Put the pot on the stove, which is on high. Boil and put in pasta. Cook for ten minutes."

"Yes. Got it! Definitely."

"Good. When it's in the colander you can mix in this pesto. All right, you two enjoy yourselves tonight, I won't be too late," she pecked Greg on the cheek and, knowing better than to touch Sherlock, gave him a friendly wave.

"Have a good night out with the girls!" Greg smiled.

She grinned, and left.

"So Sherlock," Greg asked, collapsing next to the detective on the couch, "did you get anywhere with the Leeds case?"

"Of course," he scoffed. "The mother had been having an affair and when the son found out he felt scandalised, so killed her. The mother's lover knew that it was the son who'd killed her, and so avenged her death."

Sherlock was devouring cold cases while at Greg's; when his mind was distracted working on a problem, he was distracted form the cocaine cravings and withdrawal symptoms.

Greg nodded, "Duly noted. I'll file the report tomorrow and bring you in. You hungry yet? I can put on the pasta now."

"Is it safe?" Sherlock smirked.

"Of course! It sounds easy enough, and I've had strict instructions."

Greg moved to the kitchen while Sherlock seated himself on the island bench stool, paper in hand, to watch the impending spectacle better. Sherlock peered over at Greg, slightly amused, and stayed silent. He was so often bored here, and this would break the monotony a bit. After pouring in water and pasta into the pot, Lestrade placed the lid on the saucepan and noted the time.

A while later Greg was chattering on, so Sherlock gave him a reminder: "Fifteen minutes gone, Chef."

Lestrade comically jumped, perked up and checked the time. He hurried over to the saucepan and gave a strangled yell. Sherlock sauntered over, and glancing into the pot started chuckling a deep rumbling laugh. Greg looked at him – this was the first time he'd heard the consulting detective properly _laugh_.

The water in the pot had turned from normal water – thin and clear – to thick, gluggy and yellow. It even stuck to the sides of the pot. The pasta resembled less pasta and more a lump of plasticine that kept breaking into small pieces whenever a fork was dipped in and brought up again to be futilely tasted by a very stressed Greg. Sherlock had never seen anything funnier.

"It was _pasta_, Jamie Oliver. That's all – you just had to cook some pasta!"

Greg was ripping open cupboards: "What am I going to do now? There's no ready-made food here, only ingredients for cooking, that was all the pasta, _and_ it's pouring with rain outside and Caroline's got the car so I can't go to bleeding Tesco's!"

"You put too little water in, didn't let it boil, cooked it with the lid on and left it too long."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Thoroughly."

"OK, I suppose I'll grab my mackintosh – Sherlock? What _are_ you doing?"

Sherlock was pulling ingredients out of the cupboards, and half an hour was pulling a steaming beef stew off the stovetop. Greg had watched, dumfounded, as Sherlock had commandeered the kitchen like a professional.

"Well, I would _never_ have picked you for the budding chef Sherlock! _You? Cooking?_ If I weren't pinching myself I would be certain this was a dream."

Sherlock placed the dish on the table that Greg had managed to set without major disaster, and they sat to eat.

"Ta very much Sherlock!"

Sherlock shrugged, and started eating.

"I don't understand your surprise – cooking's just science, and chemistry and biology are some of my strongest points. Among many other things."

Greg thought it was reasonable. Though that was why he was a DI and not in forensics. Then he remembered something Sherlock had said before.

"Sherlock, how do you know who Jamie Oliver is? That doesn't seem like you."

"You should hear William, he doesn't shut up about that chef. William wants to be a chef himself. When he gets off the streets he wants to work in an apprenticeship," Sherlock's voice was marginally softer, and Greg didn't press it. It wasn't right seeing Sherlock anything other than completely emotionless.

"Where'd you learn to cook?"

"My mother. Whenever my father was on a business trip; if he knew that a Holmes son was being taught to soufflé he would have probably committed a filicide."

Greg didn't know whether Sherlock was making a joke or being serious about his father; his tone was flat and nonchalant, not joking but not quite earnest. Sherlock suddenly felt uncomfortable when he had let slip the last part of his sentence, and changed the topic quickly.

"I found somewhere I think I'll rent. It's only a fifty quid a week," Sherlock told Greg, watching his food.

"Oh, all right! That's good! Do you want me to check it out with you or –"

"No, it's all right Lestrade, I've decided," Sherlock knew Lestrade wouldn't approve of the place. "I found it a few days ago and I signed the lease then. They give me the keys tomorrow."

Greg nodded. Sherlock _did_ want to have his own place as being at Greg's could sometimes be dull, and most of all he was desperate to be able to use without anyone hassling him about it, but something inside him didn't want to leave here. It was warm, full of food, and most of all, it was safe. Sherlock had loved it for the past week; even the boring moments were more bearable when in the Lestrade's house than when Sherlock was on his own. But he didn't want to let Greg know his feelings about going to yet another ramshackle and dingy flat that was without heating and scraping for food. So he quietly nodded back.

**A/N: So what happened to Lestrade with the pasta actually happened to my sister about a week ago – all the adults went out for the night and, being the eldest, put my sister in charge of cooking the pasta. Well, you know what happened next! So that's how my cousin and I ended up trekking to the nearest Tesco (50 mins round trip, thank you!) in the dead of winter night to get another few boxes of pasta. **


	8. Chapter 8

Lestrade had finished cleaning and packing away the guest room with a melancholic air. He was pleased that Sherlock had taken matters into his own hands, had found himself a flat and had rented it. But he missed having the violin music playing at ludicrous hours, missed the detective flopping around being bored and fidgety, missed the languid put-downs and the devouring of case files.

He also worried about Sherlock on his own. He wasn't sure the consulting detective was up to it. Sherlock had given Greg permission to drop by two days after he moved in, and Greg was eager to see his new flat. He had no idea what to expect. But anything, he reflected, was an improvement on the garage.

On a cold and frosty morning, Greg wiped his nearly frozen feet on the mat outside a dilapidated and neglected block of flats. It was already not a promising start. Greg made his way down the corridor and knocked on the door of number 3. Only a few moments passed before he heard Sherlock on the other side slouch to the door. In the meantime he inspected the peeling red paint on the wood. _Getting worse_, Lestrade decided.

Sherlock swung open the door and beckoned Lestrade in. When Greg stepped over the threshold Sherlock sat back down at the same old rickety table that Lestrade had seen at the garage, and continued to munch on his bread and honey. Greg didn't think it looked like a very satisfying meal, but thought it was a good sign that Sherlock was at least eating something.

"Welcome to my humble abode," Sherlock muttered in a monotone, mouth sticking together.

Greg glanced over the place. It didn't take long to see it all, as there wasn't really much to see. And it was certainly humble. Two rooms: a main room consisting of a couch doubling as a bed, a table and kitchenette, and then a bathroom leading off it. Greg didn't miss the crack in the ceiling and the leaking kitchen sink, and he grimaced at the dust and the cockroach. No, not the cockroach – the cockroach _family_. There was also a rather hideous frayed and faded yellow and red carpet on the floor.

"I'll boil the tea," Sherlock suggested. "Put some toast on?"

Greg declined the offer; he didn't want to touch any of Sherlock's food if it meant Sherlock wouldn't be eating it. Out of the blue, Lestrade had to catch the set of keys lobbed in his direction. If not for his quick reflexes, he wouldn't have liked to see the black eye.

"What're the keys for?" he asked.

"Well they gave me two sets, and since there's only one of me I thought the best way to keep Mycroft's hands off the second pair was to give them to you. Anyway, then you don't have to knock and make me get up from what I'm doing if you want to come over with cases or whatnot."

Greg was a bit touched by the fact Sherlock would give him the keys to his flat. He decided to cut Sherlock a spare set of his house keys. He sipped at the tea and was surprised momentarily – it was very a good pot of tea. Something he wouldn't have credited Sherlock for being able to do, but then again, Lestrade thought of Sherlock's commandeering presence in his kitchen last week. He wondered when he'd stop being surprised by Sherlock. Sherlock rubbed his eyes for a moment and winced.

"All right?"

He jerked up, almost as if startled.

"No, no…fine. It's all fine," he went back to looking at some papers on his lap. It looked like sheet music.

Greg inspected him more closely. Sherlock looked as if he was coming down with the flu.

"Are you getting a flu? Have a sore throat?"

No reply. Greg took the lack of argument to mean that he did. That might explain the bread and honey.

"Have you got any medicine?"

"I don't need any."

"That's beside the point; what if I'm over here once and I have a headache? I want to know where your medicine is."

"Top left cupboard."

Greg swung open the doors and took down the dirty plastic box. In there was a solitary band-aid, one container of sore throat gargle, one box of aspirin and a three other brown bottles. They all looked positively ancient. Lestrade inspected one of the bottles with dirt encrusting the white lid, scratches on the brown glass and a stained and torn label. He then checked the aspirin for a use-by date. It had expired nine years ago.

"Sherlock!" he cried. "This aspirin would kill you because it's so old – and this tea tree oil remembers Queen Elizabeth the first!"

Lestrade tipped the entire contents of the pitiful medicine box into the bin and opened Sherlock's door. After a long-winded argument he managed to drag Sherlock out of his flat to go shopping for essentials. When he'd opened the kitchenette cupboards, Lestrade had discovered the reason Sherlock was having bread and honey was not because honey would be good for a scratchy throat, but because his entire food cupboard contained one loaf of bread, one bottle of honey and three boxes of teabags.

"You should get a haircut while we're in town Sherlock," Greg suggested as they rode in a cab to the CBD. "Your hair's very long."

Sherlock shook his head stiffly.

"Why not?"

"Because this way it covers my neck."

Greg looked confused.

"It's warmer that way. Your neck is one of the vital places for determining body temperature; if your neck is cold then so is the rest of you. Why do you think that in winter people only pull the duvet up to their chin?"

Lestrade's heart sunk at these words. He pictured Sherlock, huddled in a cold garage or on a freezing pavement, long hair acting as the warmer he didn't have access to. The image of him in Lestrade's mind was so small and pitiful.

"We'll cut your hair and I'll buy you a scarf."

"I'm not having someone cut my hair."

"Why not?"

Sherlock paused before answering, and Lestrade was surprised Sherlock had decided to tell him: "I don't like strangers touching me. Touching my hair. I don't want them to."

Greg remembered how he'd been whenever anyone had touched him unexpectedly; when Caroline had accidentally touched him and he'd frozen.

"What about if I cut it for you?"

"Can you cut hair?" Sherlock asked sceptically.

"Nope!" Greg answered happily. Sherlock's mouth twisted into a half-grimace. "Come on. Please? I won't chop off your ears or cut anything that isn't hair. And it looks too scruffy. Much too scruffy."

"Fine!" Sherlock huffed. "Blue scarf please. Dark blue. It would match the coat. Like my old one."

Greg smiled; he suddenly remembered Sherlock when he first met him: an imposing black coat with the look set off well decked in the blue scarf. It made Sherlock look dramatic and imposing. Lestrade thought that the consulting detective's power complex was as bad as his brother's.

They went to the chemist first, and Sherlock's face contorted with disgust when their ears were assaulted by disco music. Sherlock checked his watch.

"Yes, why go to a drab and boring chemist?" Sherlock muttered. "Instead of going to a pharmacy, come down to a pharma-disco, where the action never stops, not even at the inappropriate hour of half-ten in the morning."

Greg concealed a laugh, turning it into an odd, suppressed snort. Once they'd left the chemist, Sherlock tried to make off for his flat and escape his own personal hell that Greg was putting him through.

"Oh no Sherlock, we're not done yet! _Clothes shopping_ next!" Greg winked, and ignoring Sherlock's look of utter horror, he dragged him off to the nearest menswear store.

* * *

"Please, remind me to _never_ do that to myself again," Greg moaned, laden with multiple heavy shopping bags that Sherlock had refused to carry – '_It was your idea to buy it!_' –slumping into the consulting detective's poky flat. He dumped the bags and rubbed his sore hands. Sherlock placed the solitary bag he'd carried home on the table.

"Don't worry Lestrade, rest assured that I will definitely remind you never to do that to me again."

He and Lestrade shared a cringe thinking about the day.

"Tea?" Greg asked, and Sherlock grunted appreciatively. As the kettle boiled, Lestrade took the scarf out of the bag and gave it to Sherlock, who wrapped it around himself. It had been an expensive scarf – costed Greg 95 quid. Apparently it was the same material as Sherlock's other one. Greg had ruefully passed over the 50-pound scarf – exactly the same except for the fabric. But he wanted to get Sherlock what he asked for, and if this had to be it then that was what Greg would buy him.

Lestrade watched Sherlock wrap himself up with satisfaction; Sherlock was warm. And knowing that he was keeping him from freezing during frosty winters made Greg feel very content inside. Wrap him in a lovely, thick scarf; keep Sherlock sheltered from the cold. Keep Sherlock safe.

They sat down with their tea and Greg picked up a slightly rusty pair of scissors he'd found on Sherlock's kitchenette bench. He snipped the scissors jokingly menacingly as he approached Sherlock with a wink. He fingered the locks as he chopped them, but made sure he left quite a bit of length. He liked the black curls. Though now they were starting to get ridiculous. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock watched as hunks of his hair cascaded around his shoulders and fell down his shirt.

"You should have given me a towel. Didn't think this through well. You should've put a towel on the ground. Easier to sweep off the floor."

"Yes, yes…unfortunately not everyone can be up to speed with your incredible intellect."

"That I'll concede."

From then on, Greg was the only person Sherlock would ever entrust his hair to every three months.


	9. Chapter 9

"Freak to see you!" Donovan called resignedly to Lestrade, slumping over. Sherlock strode past her quickly and after a sweeping glance around the room he knelt down by the body and began inspecting the dead man's tattered work shoes.

"Jealousy is the fear of comparison and the tribute that mediocrity pays to genius, Sgt. Donovan," Sherlock flung the words at her almost absentmindedly, now holding up a pair of shoelaces to the light.

Donovan watched him, speechless, her mouth hanging open incredulously. Lestrade was baring the brunt of her glares for bringing Sherlock to the crime scene. Greg rolled his eyes; as joyous as a Christmas murder made the holiday season – _not_ – he had just been handed this case and the last thing he wanted after having to start an investigation two days before Christmas Day was to listen to Sherlock and Sally's quibbling. Their tiring gripes bored him to tears.

Greg was glad when the new forensics officer entered the room to break the volatile atmosphere and silent accusations being thrown at him. The man was new at the Yard and had been assigned to help Lestrade's team, having been transferred from a police station somewhere around Woking. Or Surrey – Lestrade couldn't remember. Greg had seen him around once or twice but had never been formally introduced. He walked over to the man who was already in the blue forensics suit. The tech peeled off his rubber gloves and shook Lestrade's hand.

"You're Anderson, the new forensics tech?" Greg asked.

"Yes, you'll be Detective Inspector Lestrade?" he answered.

"Yep, pleased to meet you. This is Sgt. Donovan," Greg ignored the look Anderson was giving Donovan as he introduced them, "and this is Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."

Anderson glanced over at Sherlock who hadn't moved a muscle to greet him. Instead, Sherlock continued with his inspection of the body, now blowing on the man's reading glasses. He seemed like he couldn't have been less interested in meeting Anderson.

"Hello, nice to meet you!"

After a pause in time, Sherlock stood with a sigh and turned. Lestrade watched Sherlock's gaze settle on Anderson's hands, then ear, then his shoes, and finally Sherlock looked him in the eye and dipped his head slightly. If Anderson thought this was strange behaviour he was hiding it well. After announcing he was going to inspect the path outside, Sherlock left the three officers alone, and Lestrade got down to business with Anderson. Once the Anderson had rigged up his equipment Sherlock sauntered back in. He took one look at the room and stopped dead, before turning his head and exaggeratedly rolling his eyes.

"Oh, good Lord," Sherlock muttered in Anderson's direction.

The tech's head whipped around to frown at the consulting detective while Donovan and Lestrade sighed and shook their heads. Sally looked on at the pair amusedly. She was quite interested to see how this new one would hold up against the wrath of Sherlock.

"What's wrong?"

"You, your methods, everything…" Sherlock said in a wholly unimpressed tone.

Anderson looked slightly offended.

"What do you mean?" he scoffed.

"I know it can be difficult, but try to keep up. Even with my superior grasp of the English language, it's difficult to find any other better way of expressing everything that's wrong than 'everything'."

"Well what do you suggest? You, who, unlike me, has no official qualifications in this field!"

"Stop doing everything you're doing and start doing everything you're not. Or better yet, just let me handle the case."

"What do you mean?" Anderson, indignant, was now genuinely confused. "What do _you _think I'm doing wrong?"

"Well, to mention only one of the seventeen or eighteen things I could point out, you should be using magnetic powder to scan for fingerprints on this floor, not a regular powder – this surface is grained and porous. Also, you shouldn't even be bothering to collect samples from here, because you'll find they will match the victim exactly. Where you want to be looking is the windowsill and below this picture frame."

"You are the detective, I am the forensic scientist; I think that as this is my area of skill, I am more competent than you, and I would like to be treated as –"

Greg braced himself for the onslaught: Anderson had just insulted Sherlock, and that warranted no mercy.

"Lestrade, please background check your team recruits next time, and try to find techs who have at least a little bit of knowledge of their field. And someone whose rich parents with contacts didn't buy his way into university and then almost fail their course, passing with the absolute bare minimum and receiving the lowest marks of their cohort. Also try to find someone who isn't about to cheat on his wife of three years with your second-in-charge."

And without another word, Sherlock swept from the room, leaving in his wake a very stunned and silent Anderson and a shocked Donovan.

"So sorry about him," Greg apologised. "I'm just going to go and…"

He didn't bother to invent a reason, but left. He noticed with some satisfaction though that as he walked out of the room, Anderson switched fingerprint powders. _Well, he had it coming_, Greg reasoned.

"How'd you know all of that about Anderson?"

"Obvious; rich family and happy childhood by his unstressed face and manner of speech. Judging by what I had seen of his intellect – or lack thereof – in such a short time by what he was doing he certainly wouldn't be able to go to university based on school marks, so he bought his way in. Again, his limited intellect and the uncertainty with which he was working showed his placing in the ranks of his university leaving grade, but if he's working now he must have passed – but only with the bare minimum."

"Obvious," Lestrade sighed.

He watched Sherlock as the consulting detective swept around the scene, swooping and in out of rooms and doors, bending and craning his neck, quickly and methodically inspecting, cataloguing and deducing. There was something majestic about it; it was almost like a dance. Sherlock trod through the steps gracefully with an ethereal ease.

"Well, I need to go back to your dim-witted tech to see if my findings correlate with his. Though whether or not he's succeeded in finding anything relevant to the case is in the lap of the Gods."

Greg wished as he watched Sherlock stride off that the consulting detective would get on with at least one of the officers on the force that wasn't Lestrade.

* * *

Greg was making polite conversation with Caroline's brother David at his wife's family Christmas dinner while Caroline pottered fluttered around the kitchen. Greg could hear arguing her sister-in-law about he best way to drizzle sauce on the Christmas pudding. He thanked his lucky stars that he couldn't even cook a piece of toast and didn't have to deal with kitchen stress as well as everything else.

The argument was steadily escalating. It was making things slightly awkward for Greg and David as they listened to their wives.

David tipped his head towards the kitchen: "What about the women in there? Bloody vixens when they're together."

"You should've asked Caroline's approval when picking a bride," Greg joked.

"Then I'd still be single. Her mission in life: a personal vendetta against everyone in a relationship with me."

Finally, the infamous Christmas pudding emerged from the kitchen, unscathed by the argument, but with a particularly…artistic-looking drizzle of sauce. The women who carried it, however, were not unscathed, but huffed at each other, and Greg decided that it would be for the best to get out of this house as soon as possible.

Once he and Caroline had gulped down their pudding they made a hasty exit from the Christmas dinner. Finally they stepped out into the frosty December night to wander through London. They hadn't taken their car as it was in for repairs – _bloody good timing_, Lestrade thought sarcastically – but Greg didn't mind walking. In fact, meandering through this very upmarket area of London was exactly what Greg had wanted to do; here, everyone went the whole way with Christmas lights.

The streets glittered as snow swirled before the couple. Caroline flung out her hands, and started skipping and twirling down the street, crying out in delight, her bright red coat fluttering behind her. She was a six-year-old again. Greg beamed. This is what he loved about Christmas. Abandoning all dignity, he spun around as well to meet her quite a way down the road – she could whirl through the snow very quickly. When he caught up to her Greg tackled her and, supporting his wife by her back, grinned mischievously in her flushed face.

"Thank God we got out of that awful Christmas dinner," Caroline laughed.

Greg took her hand and they ambled through the snow still drifting down from the sky, falling thicker and thicker with the time that passed.

Just then, as if timed perfectly to ruin the magical moment, Lestrade's phone buzzed with an incoming message.

"Who on earth texts at 9 pm on Christmas night?" Caroline asked.

Greg checked his phone: _Brainwave; the woman owning a beige evening gown with a small purple stain size of a 1p coin is your murderer. SH._

"Who was it?" Caroline asked again, craning her neck to see Greg's phone's screen.

"Sherlock about the case. What's he doing thinking about that now?"

_Aren't you a bit busy with Christmas to be thinking about murders? I mean, I know they're jolly and festive and all, but still. Greg._ It was quite literally only a couple of seconds before he received a reply; Greg wondered whether Sherlock actually sat there for hours and practiced typing messages faster than humanly possible. Greg had to press each key individually and slowly, taking an eon to text one simple line. _Why would I be? SH._ Greg thought about the text, and though he knew Sherlock wasn't one for sentimentality, he found it slightly sad that the consulting detective might be alone tonight. But Caroline tugged at his arm, and he pocketed the mobile. He promised himself to pop around to Sherlock's tomorrow.

A roguish grin spread over Greg's face. He would force Sherlock to the Lestrades' New Year's party they were planning. What good fun that would be, Greg thought happily. Amused, he imagined Sherlock's face at the party while he and Caroline ambled down the street and out of sight.

* * *

**A/N: Hey everyone! So it's been a while…and I'm not sure I'm too happy with this chapter, as a lot of it is set-up for the next chapter. It was eluding me for a long time, since I was more interested in writing later parts of the story. But here it is! I'd love feedback, as always, and your readership is greatly appreciated! Thanks so much to everyone who's stayed reading with me so far! **


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock was perched, sullen faced, on the very edge of Lestrade's couch. His back was ramrod straight, and he looked like a wooden doll that had been forced to relax on the sofa, but was refusing to cooperate. Or like someone ready to spring up and race to the nearest exit at any moment. His fingers drummed an agitated tattoo on the arm of the couch he was sat on, his eyes darted around the room, and his breathing was slightly faster than usual.

Lestrade had practically dragged him there that night. Kicking and screaming. Greg had wanted to make sure Sherlock was in good company on New Year's Eve after visiting him on Boxing Day.

Sherlock's flat had looked exactly the same as always, the detective obviously ignoring the holiday completely, apart from the tiny improvement that Sherlock's room had been a lot messier than a few days earlier when Lestrade had last dropped by. Strewn over the table had been case files and papers, which had left Sherlock no room to eat. He'd made do with the floor though, and hadn't bothered to clear the accumulating dirty dishes for a few days.

"Good to know you've been enjoying the festivities," Lestrade had commented drily.

And that was how Sherlock had ended up in his own personal hell: settled uncomfortably on the very comfortable couch with a loud and raucous party assaulting his senses. In vain, he tried to block it out. Sherlock had already tried most of Mycroft's methods for him: reciting pi to 10,000 decimal places, counting the first 1000 prime numbers, and reorganising the rows and rows of shelves in the room of the Mind Palace entitled "Carbon and its forms".

Now he was making words using symbols from the periodic table. GeNiUS. OBVIOUS. ThInK. Irritatingly, he noted, he could make SHErLaCK, or SHErLuCK – but nowhere was there an "L" or "Lo". Sherlock made a mental note to discover a new element and assign it the symbol "Lo". "Sherlockium". That would give him one up on Mycroft, he thought smugly.

After 2 hours and 21 minutes of torture, and with only 1 hour and 52 minutes until Sherlock was allowed to leave the party – Lestrade wasn't letting him go until after the fireworks – Greg came and plonked himself next to Sherlock on the couch. With the sudden weight added, the cushions bounced up and down, bobbing the stiff consulting detective along with them. Greg tried not to laugh; however amusing the sight was.

"So," Greg said, trying to make conversation. "All right?"

He was met with no response, so he tried again.

"Why don't you come and join the party?"

Once again, Sherlock didn't answer, but when Lestrade looked down at Sherlock's hands he noticed the fingers flexing, tensing, and clenching fistfuls of the sofa cushions. He saw Sherlock's sweating brow, his slight discomforted wriggling.

"Hey," he said, and Sherlock whipped his eyes around to look at Greg, "let's pop out onto the balcony. No one's outside yet, not until the fireworks."

Gingerly, Sherlock straightened out to stand. He ducked his head while pushing past loud and raucous party-goers so he couldn't see them, couldn't make eye contact or feel too intruded by them. Finally, he broke through the sweating air into the sharp, biting night.

He breathed deeply. In, out. In, out. It felt good to be able to breathe again; he hadn't been able to properly in the thick air inside the house. In, out. Alone on the balcony with just Greg there, Sherlock could block out the party; the noise, the smell, the heat. He straightened his back and let the air nip his face. His taut shoulders slackened.

"Hey, if you were uncomfortable, you should've just said so and come out here originally!"

Typically, Greg again was met with no reply. He decided to look over the neighbourhood instead. He and Carolyn always hosted the New Year's Eve party; from their balcony they had a wonderful view of the patch of sky where the fireworks would erupt above the Thames. Greg decided to try at conversation again.

"What's your New Year's Resolution going to be?"

"Why on earth would I make a New Year's Resolution?" Sherlock scoffed after a moment of incredulous silence.

"Well, I dunno…to be a better person?"

"It's not going to get much better than it already is, Lestrade."

"Sure it will!"

"Tell me how, pray," Sherlock asked scornfully.

"Well, for a start, you could actually try to get on with the other officers at the Yard."

"I only try to get on with people who are worthy of my attention."

Greg looked at Sherlock again.

"Do you try to get on with me?" Lestrade asked slowly, trying to keep his tone neutral and the hopefulness out.

Sherlock shrugged: "Yes, I guess so."

Lestrade was flattered into a momentary silence. A small smile played on his lips, and he suddenly felt a lot more let-in by the man standing next to him. He was much more aware of Sherlock's presence, and in that instant he saw the detective in a new light. Greg shifted ever so lightly towards Sherlock more.

"Well, why not the others? Donovan, say? And Anderson – you didn't even give him a chance the other day!"

Sherlock's eyes darkened ever so slightly; and Lestrade wasn't even sure if they really did, or whether it was just the dim light playing tricks on him.

"I don't need to give him a chance."

"Well, I think you do."

"Inspector, if you've known and worked with me for this long, and you still haven't realised that 20 seconds with someone is ample time for me to deduce whether or not they are worthy of attention, then your IQ might actually be lower than Anderson's."

"But really, why on earth isn't he 'worthy' of your attention?"

"His wedding ring."

"Sherlock, that may be enough of an explanation for you, but you have to remember that the rest of humanity don't keep up with your thinking when you're saying things like this. What about his wedding ring?"

"Oh, surely you saw it! Old – he's been married for some time. It's worn-down, but it's worn out from being _twisted off a finger_ – I could gauge the condition of the underside because it was loose on him. Now, Anderson doesn't take off his wedding ring to polish it, because it obviously hasn't been cleaned in years. He frequently takes off his ring to be unfaithful to his wife. Also, the skin around the ring bears marks of not having a ring there very often. And we've already established that it isn't a new marriage – so he simply doesn't wear it. I do not tolerate people practising infidelity. This is why most people in the world are unworthy of my attention. And did you even see the look he gave Donovan?

"Ah, now, Donovan. Same problem. She can never find herself anyone steady, she isn't trustful to have a steady, established partner; but she craves love and attention. She's what is known as the 'other woman'. Many married men cheat on their wives, and they use Sgt Sally Donovan as the object of their desires. A link in the ruin of many families, that woman."

"It's very noble of you to be intolerant of unfaithfulness," Greg was slightly surprised; it didn't strike him as being very Sherlock. "You don't seem the type to care."

"You don't seem the type to listen to Led Zeppelin, or the Smiths much for that matter, but there you go – defying the odds."

"But I've heard you being flippant about people's affairs, so why –"

"Oh, I have to explain everything. I am intolerant of them, but I don't care for listening to other people whinging about them either. I don't want to hear everyone else's petty issues. It's not my problem that's it's happening, it's theirs. I can silently dislike."

"You're not very silent about it."

"Well, I've learnt not to trust humanity. You have a way to go in that respect. Too must confidence in other people, Lestrade. It's dangerous."

"What's dangerous is being alone. Doing cocaine."

"You've brought that up again."

"Yes, I have."

"Well don't."

Greg knew better than to ask Sherlock about the reason behind this sudden hatred of people who cheated on their husbands and wives, but his mind kept drifting back to it. He imagined that he had Sherlock's deducing powers, and wished he could just look at Sherlock and know the reason. He wished that he knew more about Sherlock in general. Lestrade knew that the detective knew infinitely more about Greg than Greg knew about him. And that bothered him. He wanted to see right into Sherlock. To really know the other man on the balcony.

"I'm serious though Sherlock."

"About anything in particular?"

"Don't play dumb, it doesn't work on you," Sherlock gave a half-suppressed laugh in agreement. "About the cocaine. The new year starts in under an hour, so you can turn over a new leaf. Start again."

Sherlock snorted, and muttered something about "being cliché".

"I won't let you on any cases Sherlock, if you don't get off the drugs. I'll refuse to consult you."

Sherlock bristled indignantly beside him: "You don't understand."

"Enlighten me."

Sherlock gave the typical answer that he always gave to the question: "I get bored."

"That's not it Sherlock. That may be part of the reason, but I know that's not all. Are you going to tell me the whole truth?"

Sherlock stared Greg off in a stalemate. Both waited for the other to crack. Greg finally broke the silence with something he knew that Sherlock would contest; something that he knew would drag the truth out of him.

"Because you're stupid. You're stupid, you did the wrong thing, and now you can't confess to your mista –"

"Because it dulls my senses! I didn't mean to ever do drugs, it wasn't stupid – it just started with the morphine when they gave it to me in hospital, and it took away the pain, it numbed my oversensitive sensory input, and for once I felt normal! It was wonderful! And then it – escalated."

Greg was slightly shocked; he hadn't expected that kind of truth. Especially coming out of the mouth of Sherlock – cold, unfeeling and hard. But Sherlock was in fact none of those things; Lestrade had always sensed that, but now he knew. Sherlock suddenly seemed to realise what he said, that he'd let out too much, and his face hardened. Cursing himself internally. But the muscles loosened again once he seemed to realise he was now in too deep, and backtracked to explain.

"I'm not normal Lestrade. Well, you know that, but it's not just my superior brain that is abnormal. I have excellent senses – too excellent. My sense receptors are hypersensitive. I see things that others don't, I hear things that others don't, smell things, feel things, and it gets overwhelming. It gets…too much to handle. My brain becomes overloaded with data.

"The only time I don't feel like that is when I'm either working on a problem, or I'm drowning out the world by playing my violin, or I'm removed from everything in my Mind Palace. Or, I'm taking drugs. At first, that's what it was about. I was given morphine in hospital and it dulled everything, and that was just wonderful. Then I was introduced to cocaine…and here I am."

Lestrade felt slightly stunned by Sherlock's openness, and sighed sadly. He was overcome with a feeling of pity for Sherlock. He could feel the younger man squirming beside him, so Greg quickly though up another line of conversation.

"How's William?"

Sherlock jumped on the change of topic: "Improving steadily. Lung and heart function back to normal, blood levels clear, wound on the mend, strength returning. He should be released soon."

"That's wonderful news!" Lestrade was very pleased; he'd been in to interview William after the shooting, and the boy had been delightful. Lestrade would never forget the way his heart constricted when the vulnerable teenager, lying wan helpless in a sterile hospital bed, had admitted to his running away from home, preferring a life on the streets to his unstable and volatile home.

William had looked up at him with tired eyes and thanked him. _It was really nothing William_, Lestrade had been able to muster, though he thought he deserved no thanks whatsoever. Children were always Greg's weakness. Being a senior police officer, Lestrade saw the darkest sides of humanity every day. But if he could name the worst thing in the world that he'd seen, it would be the mistreating of children in any form.

Suddenly, the Greg and Sherlock were interrupted by delighted cries from inside the house, and the balcony was stormed by the partygoers. Some called over to Greg, waved at him, and he responded. Sherlock checked his watch: one minute to midnight.

Soon the entire party began a countdown, at the same time as crowds of millions who could be very distantly heard on the banks of the Thames, voices carrying on the wind. Caroline shouted along with the others, pushing her way to Greg. Steadying her glass of champagne, a count of "one" sounded through the air, and Caroline kissed Greg in delight while the black backdrop of sky was painted with splashes of colour.

While Caroline turned to wish her guests a happy new year, Greg said the same to Sherlock. He nodded, and muttered the same.

Lestrade watched the consulting detective's enraptured gaze on the fireworks as Sherlock leaned his crossed arms against the balcony rail, the wind making the coat flutter. Something about the fact that Sherlock was enjoying he lights so much made Greg very satisfied. Fireworks weren't completely beneath the great Sherlock Holmes. He could see the colours reflected in Sherlock's pale irises: blue, red, purple, green, orange, yellow, dancing through Sherlock's vision.

"Cruel," Sherlock muttered.

"Cruel?" Greg asked.

"That you should give me a taste of utopia, a little snippet, and then take it away, threaten me with such excellent blackmail material."

"You'll do it? You'll try this year? I'll help you. And then you can work your way through the Yard's case files to your heart's content."

"No promises."

Knowing that was the best he'd get, Lestrade was satisfied. They would work on it this year. Lestrade could hear Sherlock begin to hum _Auld Lang Syne_.

* * *

**A/N: I'm still here! Sorry about the long wait, I have no excuse. I have however, finished the next few chapters, and I'll try not to have massive gaps in between uploading again! However, having said that, in about a week I'm going away, so during that time I'll not be posting for about three weeks. But I'll try to post a couple more chapters before I leave!**

**A massive thank you to everyone who's still reading and has stuck with this story, you guys are brilliant!**** And everyone who's followed, reviewed and favourited, as always, a special thanks to you! You make my day. :)**


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: Warnings for mild swearing, but in the situation, it was unavoidable. Thanks to everyone who's favourited, followed and/or reviewed this story, you're the best! Thanks also to everyone's who's reading, I'd always love to hear feedback to see if the story's going in the right direction or not, and what your thoughts are in general :)**

* * *

"No Sherlock."

"Don't be ridiculous Lestrade."

"I'm not. It's not going to happen Sherlock."

"You're acting like a child."

"Well there's the pot calling the kettle black!"

"My kettle's silver."

"That's beside the point!" Lestrade yelled angrily at the petulant child sitting across from him. Sherlock's face was calm but flat, his legs crossed and his fingers steepled on the arms of his only chair that he was sat in. His face barely changed expression as he shot words back at Lestrade, bickering.

"It's not beside the point; if the kettle is black, it is a sign of hypocrisy. My kettle, though, is silver."

Greg rubbed a hand across his face slowly, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. Greg could swear he was going greyer much faster in these past few months. He knew why that was.

"Sherlock, this is final. I'm not letting you into that crime scene, and you are going on no cases until you agree to go cold turkey on the drugs."

"Well then Inspector, we have a problem."

"Yes, we do."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, flounced over to his violin, swiped it off its perch on the windowsill, and bit Lestrade's ears with angry, crunching sweeps of his bow.

"I'm giving you a choice Sherlock: drugs or cases. This discussion is over now. I'll come back tomorrow and see what you've decided."

* * *

Greg returned to next day to a pensive Sherlock, thankfully calmed down from when they'd parted last. Sherlock's phone rested on his chest as the detective lay on the floor; so engrossed in thinking that he took no notice of his visitor, even as Greg leaned over him and waved a hand in front of Sherlock's focussed and glassy eyes.

"What's this?" Lestrade started, reaching down for Sherlock's phone, guaranteeing a response.

Predictably, the detective's hand whipped to his chest to snatch the phone away from Lestrade's reach, and drawing his legs in he jumped up in one fluid motion. Greg half-chuckled; the fact that he knew how to manipulate the detective made him strangely pleased.

"Well?" Sherlock asked, turning away and putting his phone down.

"What have you decided?"

"I told you my decision yesterday."

Lestrade sat heavily on the couch and put his head in his hand. He would keep working on it. He would slowly wear Sherlock down, bit by bit. Greg was made of stronger stuff than Sherlock seemed to think. Lestrade realised that they'd been sitting in silence for a good few minutes, and eyelids slightly drooped, he languidly glanced over to Sherlock, still and with a slight frown. Outwardly, he didn't display many signs of disturbance, but Lestrade could feel anger radiating from him. It was slightly scary.

"What's happened?"

At Sherlock's sharp look with narrowed eyes, Greg continued: "C'mon. Unlike you, I'm good with emotions. Something's happened that's making you angry, so what was it?"

Sherlock considered his answer: "William's out of hospital."

Lestrade could see nothing bad about that, so was slightly confused.

"He's been taken to Manchester, to live with his aunt."

Lestrade picked up on the cold tone that Sherlock used when telling him this.

"He didn't want to go. I was visiting him, and social services arrived. They told him he was being taken away, and…he fought. He threatened to…take action. Run away, among other things."

The way the last sentence was said chilled Lestrade.

"I've been texting him; he's unhappy. He says that he's been seeing counsellors, social services…"

"It's making you unhappy? Worried?" Lestrade asked.

"I'd rather not talk about my personal feelings Lestrade. It's very dull conversation."

"But, it would be good to –"

"No Inspector, I don't think so."

Greg knew the discussion was over, so he didn't press the subject.

"Lestrade, I'm sure that without me your workload is extremely heavy with unsolved cases, and right now it's 2 pm on a Wednesday. Office hours."

Greg stood with the dismissal, knowing Sherlock just wanted to be left to his own thoughts, and bid him goodbye. There was a nervous twinge in his stomach as he shut the creaking and peeling door on the consulting detective, and knew he'd have to keep an extra close eye on him from now on.

* * *

Lestrade hadn't heard from Sherlock for a couple of days, which of course happened occasionally, so he shouldn't have been overly worried. But Sherlock hadn't been allowed on any cases while he still refused to give up the cocaine, and usually Lestrade was dropping by or shooting Sherlock a text every day, just to make sure he was still alive. However, this week Greg had been so busy and he hadn't been able to get to Sherlock's, and he was relying on texts. So when Sherlock didn't reply to Greg for three days, the worry really began to engulf him.

The last straw was when Sherlock didn't reply to a text in which Lestrade outlined a triple homicide where all the victims were found next to a smashed bust of Napoleon. Greg had been desperate to get him to respond, and he knew that finally presenting him with a case after a long cold turkey was the way. Apparently, he was wrong. Lestrade knew it was all of Sherlock's dreams rolled into one superb problem. Either Sherlock was ignoring him, or he was somehow incapacitated. And Lestrade knew for a fact it wouldn't be the former.

Greg couldn't focus on his paperwork, or the leads of the Napoleon case, and couldn't even put his mind to work after being given a cup of coffee and two cups of tea by a wonderfully obliging Donovan. He took to checking his phone every few seconds like a nervous twitch, and tried to ignore DI Gregson's gaze that he could feel boring into him.

Finally, he gave up on a response. Standing, he had made up his mind to find out where the hell Sherlock was. Usually, he wouldn't be so worried. But it was Sherlock. Sherlock, who had a cocaine habit; who wouldn't be adverse to destructive tendencies; who had no one but Lestrade and Mycroft, avoiding Mycroft at all costs; who currently had no distractions in the form of cases which was always likely to turn into a disaster; and who hadn't jumped on a triple homicide.

"Donovan, hold the fort, I'm going to see Sherlock," Lestrade informed her.

"The case?" she sighed.

"Yeah," Lestrade replied, ignoring her rolled eyes and acidic muttering, knowing fully well what she thought of consulting Sherlock.

The drive was quick; after all, Vauxhall was only across the Thames from the Yard. Lestrade pulled up to the falling-down block of flats, double-parked the cruiser, and jumped out. Letting himself into the building he approached Sherlock's flat and knocked, as he still liked to give Sherlock warning of his approach, even with a set of keys.

There was no answer, so he swung the door open himself, and felt his heart plummet to the bottom of his stomach. A nasty ill feeling firmly planted itself there. What he saw was a messier-than-usual apartment, with a box of eaten Chinese take-out and various test tubes and experiments bubbling away all over the benches. They surrounded a very still consulting detective lying flat on the floor, arms and legs skewed.

Greg ran to his side, and turned him over. He was burning, his body was slack and limp, and his face was a much whiter shade of pale than usual – indeed, his pallor made his skin match Lestrade's crisp, white work shirt.

"Shit! Sherlock! Oh God…oh my God…Jesus Christ…Sherlock! _Sherlock! Can you hear me?_"

_You've failed him Greg, you colossal imbecile!_ Lestrade's mind shrieked at him._ You were supposed to protect him, put him back on track, help him – and _this_ is where he's ended up! What kind of protection is that?_ He had crouched by the side of the unresponsive detective, and tried not to cry. When he put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and shook slightly, the detective's head lolled sickeningly to the side.

He had to calm his own racing heart to check for a pulse in Sherlock, and waited. He couldn't gauge one for a while, but suddenly, he found it. Weak, fluttering and intermittent, but it was there. It was sweet life flowing through Sherlock. It was damn better than feeling nothing, but Lestrade was still far from happy.

Dialling 999, he practically screeched down the phone at the operator for an ambulance. When he was told that EMTs were on their way, he turned his attention back to Sherlock. He futilely tried to calm his panicky voice.

"Sherlock, listen to me. Don't you dare die on me, all right? We're going to get you to hospital, I'm going to have you fixed up, but _you're not going to die on me_. I swear I'll _kill_ you if you do. Is that understood? Please Sherlock," and added in his mind _Damn my cracking voice_.

He turned Sherlock over, and kept talking to him. That's all he could do at this point. Rubbing Sherlock's hand, he kept talking and talking. After again pleading to Sherlock to be all right, he gave him an extra little incentive.

"Anyway Sherlock, if you stay with me you'll be able to investigate this dastardly difficult homicide we've got on our hands."

He didn't tell Sherlock that if he lived – no not _if_, Greg, he _will_ live – he would probably be in hospital for the entire duration of the case anyway. Perhaps Lestrade would bring case files to his bed.

"You'd love the case," he continued desperately. _Maybe if I talk to him like normal, like it's just another day with just another case, everything will be all right_. "Each of the victims was found next to a bust of Napoleon, shattered to pieces. We also just received information that another identical bust belonging to an old woman in Essex was shattered, but she was unharmed, being out of the house at the time."

He was still talking when the ambulance arrived, and followed Sherlock's stretcher into the back of the vehicle. He didn't think he was allowed there, not being family, but had wormed his way in. He didn't remember how, but that hardly mattered. Immediately the paramedics had pounced on Sherlock, and were now hooking him up to all sorts of contraptions that Lestrade had no idea what the hell were. If anything medical was ever mentioned to Greg, he just blankly nodded, having been completely lost on the first word. It was completely overwhelming for him. But he knew exactly what it was they were currently sticking into Sherlock's mouth.

"But – but he was breathing before! Has he gone downhill?" Lestrade cried in horror.

"His breathing is strained and weak, it's probably better to have a little extra help," one of the medics, an amicable girl who couldn't have been more than 25, told him. Greg could read what she was thinking, what she meant instead of "strained and weak": _liable to cease_.

Greg just nodded mutely, and kept watching, feeling utterly and completely sick. It was only when his phone started ringing and he extracted his hand from Sherlock's that he realised he had been gripping the detective's hand like a lifeline the entire time. Without the weight to cling to, he felt a lot emptier, and Sherlock seemed a lot more vulnerable. He checked the caller.

"Donovan," he said shortly, distracted by looking at Sherlock, now being injected with some dubious-looking liquid.

"Sir, where are you? You never take longer than 15 minutes tops to collect Sherlock."

"He's…oh my God Donovan…"

"What? What's wrong sir?" she sounded panicked; she must have picked up on the waver in Lestrade's voice.

Lestrade could feel the 25-year-old medic looking at him sympathetically.

"We're…on our way to the hospital…"

"_What?_ What's happened?"

"It's Sherlock…he…he's – oh God, he's overdosed, and I don't know whether he's going to live or…"

He couldn't say it. He was definitely not going to ever say it.

"Shit," she breathed. "Are you all right Greg?"

"As all right as anyone could be in this situation, which is completely not all right. Look, Donovan, I have to go –"

"I'll let everyone know you won't be able to get back, call me when you know what you're doing."

He nodded, then remembering that Donovan couldn't see him, weakly confirmed out loud, and hung up. Putting his phone away, he clutched onto Sherlock again. It felt much better to have his hand on the consulting detective's, to know that he was still there, as a fittingly dreary and grey London rushed past them in a blur.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Before we begin, a word of apology. I was overseas for three weeks, but still, a month is unacceptable. Thanks to everyone who has been sticking with me so far, and thanks to everyone who's followed/favourited/reviewed, you're all wonderful! I hope you continue to enjoy :) Warnings in this chapter for minor swearing, but in the situation, it was unavoidable.**

* * *

Greg followed the stretcher out of the ambulance and ran alongside Sherlock. He had been forced to let go of his hand, but still made sure Sherlock was still in sight. Suddenly, his knees felt weak and he didn't trust himself to not throw up when he heard a loud, wailing, uninterrupted beep from something hooked up to Sherlock. Not a good sound. Lestrade knew that for sure. Medical language assaulted his ears, that horrible beep infernally ever present. _He's coding_, Greg thought as he watched, slightly detached, the medics beginning CPR and preparing defibrillators. A stray nurse noticed Lestrade's ashen and devastated face as he watched Sherlock's heart stop beating, his lungs stop breathing; the boy he thought of almost as a son. She came over and guided him to a hard, hateful chair.

"Sir, I think you should sit down. Do you need a cup of tea?" she asked kindly.

Greg nodded, not really knowing what he was agreeing to, and took the proffered cup of tea gratefully. He waited, watching in long minutes as the paramedics desperately tried to keep Sherlock alive. He didn't realise he was violently shaking until the nurse handed him a wad of tissues – apparently, his shaking hand had caused some of the burning tea to slosh all over his trousers. _Burning like Sherlock's skin had been. Well, isn't heat a good thing? At least he wasn't cold._ Greg mopped it up absentmindedly.

At last and with incredible relief, Lestrade heard the continuous beep stop to be replaced by a broken beep. A good sound, he knew, a sound that meant Sherlock's heart was finally working again. Breathing again, he started sipping his tea, his hand still shaking.

"What's wrong with him?" he asked desperately.

"The young man on the stretcher there?" she asked, and Greg nodded. He knew that she was noting Sherlock's age, and with Greg's grey hair and intense worry she must have assumed Greg was his father. And he didn't mind being thought of that way. He didn't mind at all. He actually quite liked the thought. She was reluctant to upset him too much though, but sat down and laid her hand over his to comfort him and soften the blow of information.

"It's too early to tell yet, but among others, vasoconstriction, pyrexia, cardiac arrest, respiratory failure, and increased blood pressure."

She saw Greg's blank face, and clarified: "Narrowing of blood vessels, increased temperature and fever, heart and breathing failure, and increased blood pressure. But," she hastily added, seeing Greg blanch, "those problems are being fixed right now as we speak."

"Will he be all right?" Greg's voice was small.

"It's very early to tell, but we'll keep you informed. But he should be fine, right as rain before you know it," her voice was reassuring but, looking at the pale and still figure half-obscured by masked doctors, Greg found it hard to believe her.

The nurse stood as Sherlock began to be wheeled out of the room and down the corridor. Greg leapt out of his chair, but thankfully his cup was empty by then so no tea was spilt. His head whipped from Sherlock to the nurse frantically.

"Where are they taking him?" he yelled.

"Sir, please, sit down, it's all right. You can't be with him at the moment, but you'll be allowed to go in when he's stable."

She sat him down, and Greg tried not to think _if_. Greg was alone again when she left. Alone in his thoughts. Alone, without Sherlock, who was possibly dead in the next room. Lestrade cursed Sherlock for doing this, cursed drugs for existing, cursed himself for not checking up on him earlier, cursed Sherlock's circumstance that led him to the drugs, cursed fate for making him meet Sherlock. He hated everything, wanted to smash something, but instead sat languid and despondent.

He had grown close to Sherlock. He knew that over the months the consulting detective was letting him in more, and Mycroft had told him during one of their meetings: _You should be flattered by how he treats you. He must think you're special._ Those words echoed in Greg's head, swimming through every thought and tensing every nerve. Greg had invested so much time in the consulting detective now. He couldn't let Sherlock throw that all away.

Greg wanted people to be happy. But especially Sherlock.

Sighing heavily, he adjusted his slumped position on the hard plastic waiting room chair. God, he hated hospitals. And he hated these chairs. If he ever became Prime Minister of this country, the first thing to go would be these damned waiting room chairs. Thinking what a pitiful and probably pathetic sight he must be - dishevelled, weary, downhearted - he listened to the noises of the hospital as it lived and breathed around him while its occupants all suffered and died: shouts of doctors, shoes squeaking on floors, clangs of equipment, beeps from monitors. He wrinkled his nose, hit by the foul smell of disinfectant.

Suddenly, in his periphery, Greg caught sight of a man with dark auburn hair, a three-piece suit and that bloody black umbrella. Watching him neatly approach, he hoped that Mr British Government was here to somehow move mountains, align stars and create universes to make sure Sherlock was all right and treated well.

Lestrade wondered briefly how Mycroft had known to come here; Greg had told no one except Donovan and as far as he knew, Donovan hadn't met Mycroft. Then again, it was Mycroft. Lestrade had to remind himself of that; _of course_ Mycroft knew. Greg slowly rotated his head and dejectedly gazed upwards to meet Mycroft's eyes.

"Mycroft," Greg tipped his head as he muttered the name.

"Detective Inspector. Always lovely to see you, but under the circumstances…"

He trailed off and the two were left in an awkward silence.

"Have you found out how he is?" Greg asked.

"Yes; multiple complications, and he's being worked on as we speak, but they tell me at this stage, though uncertain, his chances of survival are good."

"Good…that's good. Yes…yes, good is good," Greg muttered absentmindedly, a weight beginning to lift. _Astonishing analysis Greg – "good is good". How insightful. But at least he'll be all right. At least he's going to live_. "When can we see him?"

"Not yet, when he's moved to the Intensive Care Unit they shall inform me, and I shall inform you."

Greg nodded, and they lapsed into silence once more. The nurse who had brought Greg tea interrupted their thoughts. At the sight of her, Greg leapt to his feet, knowing she brought news. Her face was blank, so whether good or bad, he didn't know, but he prayed to every deity he could think existed in those few seconds that it was the first.

"Sherlock Holmes' family?" she asked. "He's been moved to ICU, critical but stable. And improving by the second," her face broke into a small smile.

Greg grinned, and he and Mycroft marched down the corridors to the room where Sherlock was. It was at the end of many curtained cubicles of the ICU, so there was hardly any privacy for Sherlock – _Mycroft should have that fixed_, Greg decided. _Though, on the dazzlingly bright side, we're not going to see him in the mortuary._ The two men approached Sherlock's bedside. He usually looked rather gaunt, thin and pale, but this was ridiculous. Greg almost didn't know where Sherlock's skin ended and the crisp, bright white bed sheets started. Of course, it was much so much more preferable to how he looked when Greg had found him, but it still made him stop in his tracks.

Fetching a chair and plonking himself onto it, Greg watched in silence as Mycroft observed Sherlock, read the medical charts around the bed, satisfied himself that his brother was going to be all right, went to ensure Sherlock received the utmost attention and comfort during his hospital stay, and then came to say goodbye.

"I am regretfully _extremely_ busy at the moment – but of course, I cannot tell you what with," his face wore that enigmatic smile that used to annoy Lestrade, but now was growing on him. "I will be stopping by every day of course, and please phone me, Detective, if there is any news, either good or – _unfavourable_."

As he said then last word, Mycroft scrunched his face slightly and something strange crossed his face that Greg couldn't place. Emotion? On Mycroft Holmes' face? Surely not. But it was gone as soon as it came, and Greg was nodding goodbye.

As Mycroft left, Lestrade pretended not to notice that as he passed Sherlock for the last time on the other side of the bed he squeezed his brother's hand. Greg realised that Mycroft would never in his life admit to showing or even _having_ emotions. But Mr Government still wasn't completely above it.

"Christ Sherlock," Greg began once Mycroft had well and truly left, "you gave me the biggest fucking scare, you _sod!_ How could you? No, forget that. I'm not angry; I'm too relieved to be angry. But we are getting you straight off those bleeding drugs. You never take too many, you're always so careful! What pushed you over the edge? Jesus Christ. Don't you ever do this again though, you understand? If you _do_ do this again, there will be so much hell to pay, mister. I'm so glad you're alive. Jesus, you're going to be all right, aren't you?"

Lapsing into silence, Greg had only one fervent wish that he prayed for with all his heart.

He prayed that as long as he lived, he would never have to bury Sherlock.


	13. Chapter 13

True to his word, Mycroft came in every day. Anthea came in for a large part of the middle part of the day to take over the vigil, but Greg would always end up back waiting by Sherlock's bedside with a stiff back on a hospital chair.

At night while he slept, Greg dreamt of horrible things. He would see Sherlock, lying on the floor, lifeless – but this time Greg was too late. He didn't kneel by Sherlock's side and on picking up his wrist find a fluttery, weak pulse. In the dreams Sherlock was cold, not feverishly hot. In the dreams Sherlock was stiff. In the dreams he knelt by Sherlock and picked up his wrist to find nothing. No life beat at all. He woke up sweating and breathing too fast.

It was a relief when the breathing tube was taken out of Sherlock's mouth on the second day, and when he was deemed stable to be moved out of ICU on the third day.

After four days of talking endlessly to an unconscious Sherlock, Greg thought he was going to go insane if he wasn't going to be answered. Sometimes he just chatted about trivial inane nonsense, sometimes he updated Sherlock on what was going on in the world, sometimes he talked about cold cases, sometimes he read aloud to him. Greg just wished he'd be answered. At least the chairs in here were more comfortable; in the wards they had nice plump blue ones.

"Anyway, I told the wife it was ridiculous, but she did it anyway. I suppose it turned out all right in the end though, hey?" he sighed at the usual lack of response. He snorted; Sherlock would've hated this conversation if he'd had a say in it. "All right Sherlock, I'm going to fix myself another cup of tea, I'll be back in five, tops."

He patted Sherlock's hand and was about to stand before he was interrupted: "And a tea for me thanks, that would be lovely."

Greg almost keeled over as he saw Sherlock's mouth moving and heard the weak stream of words coming out of it. Finally, after what seemed to him an age but in reality was two seconds, Sherlock slid open those icy eyes of his; for some reason, Lestrade thought they seemed extremely white, and the irises that changed colour so frequently looked positively sapphire. Greg grinned like an idiot, and clenched Sherlock's hand.

"Hold me back so I know you're really awake Sherlock; clench my hand!"

The younger's fingers wrapped around the hand gripping him, and squeezed. Greg knew then that Sherlock really was awake; he could feel his very alive and conscious weight pressing on his hand and knew that it wasn't a hallucination. If it was possible, Greg's grin stretched even more widely across his face. Something blossomed inside him, a feeling of relief so great that he felt like Sherlock was one his own. But then the smile started to slide off Greg's face when he began to berate the boy.

"Sherlock Holmes, do not _ever_ do that to me again! _Ever!_ You gave me the biggest bloody heart attack when I came in…and I saw you…lying on your floor…" Greg trailed off, remembering how completely and utterly bloody _terrified_ he'd been. "Why?" Greg asked, dejectedly. He'd thought Sherlock had been lessening the drugs.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but just at that moment, a nurse bustled in.

"You're awake – how lovely!"

Greg stepped back to let a stream of nurses and doctors check Sherlock up and down, who was now scowling heavily. With the usual impeccable timing, Lestrade noticed Mycroft silently appear at the doorway. Greg wondered how Mycroft did it; he always managed to arrive exactly when he needed to. Even if he was arriving in time for something he needed to deal with that was completely unexpected, he had a knack of just always being there.

Greg thought that perhaps he was a magician or could see into the future. Always in the right place at the right time. _Except for Sherlock's overdose. Mycroft's sixth sense failed then – bad time to stuff up as well_. But Greg tried not to think about that. Mycroft sauntered over to stand next to Lestrade, twirling his umbrella, watching his brother deal with the doctors.

"How'd you know to come so bang on time? He woke up not three minutes ago."

Mycroft smiled his mysterious smile, and Greg knew he wouldn't be getting an answer. So instead of pressing it he changed the topic.

"Ten quid says Sherlock only takes two days to make one of them cry," Lestrade wages.

"My dear Inspector, there is something wrong with him if it takes that long. Six hours."

"Five quid that it'll be the short brunette nurse to crack first."

"Not very good at this betting lark, are you? The red-head will be the first to go, I assure you."

"You're on, Mycroft Holmes."

"Prepare to lose 15 pounds, Gregory. I've warned you."

"Oh that's right, I forgot: you're prophetic and omniscient, aren't you? Maybe I should listen to your advice."

"You really have been around my brother's propaganda too much. God knows what he says about me."

"Well…it's not all completely good things…"

"I'm surprised he's said anything good at all."

"Well, no, he hasn't."

Mycroft smiled for a moment, and then turned his attention back to Sherlock, now berating the nurses for the positioning of the IV line. He crossed the room and talked in a low voice to Dr Barker, the doctor in charge. Greg waited awkwardly, cringing while he listened to Sherlock's sharp tongue shooting poison at everyone within a 50 foot radius of him.

"Do you have _any_ sense at all? What have I been admitted for? You think the standard dose of that drug will suffice me? Any child would be able to see that being a drug user and therefore having a high drug tolerance would mean that the normal dose would do absolutely nothing – this is why I never go to hospitals. No one is as competent as I am, so they can't help me anymore than I can help myself."

"You can't help yourself if you're unconscious Sherlock. Now stop being so puerile and just quiet down," Mycroft scolded him with raised eyebrows.

"Don't keep the Korean president waiting Mycroft, he's the only one who wants to hear you talk. And don't put those papers on that table!" he barked to the nurse. "They'll fall down the back and – oh, there they go."

Sherlock was only amused watching the redheaded nurse push the bedside table out of the way and reach down the back, scrambling around for the files that had fallen off.

"Who puts a stack of paper on a slanted surface? _Obviously_ they won't stay there for very long."

"Stop your muttering Sherlock," Mycroft strode around the room, finished with his conversation. He appeared at Greg's shoulder once more, smiling ruefully over to his brother.

"Our nanny used to call him the hurricane; wrecking havoc and leaving rubble wherever he went."

Greg chuckled.

"Unfortunately, Detective Inspector, I have a very busy schedule today. Judging by my brother's tedious whinging he's going to survive the day, so I'll say farewell here for a few hours. The office really is tiresomely demanding of me. But I will be back before too long," Mycroft nodded to Greg, and without bothering to attempt to disturb his sulking brother he swept through the ward doors, umbrella spinning all the while.


End file.
